


Something Old and Something New

by angryhausfrau



Series: What is it That You're Fighting For [4]
Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Also yes, Awkward Sex, Hawkeye/BJ in chapter 14, M/M, Trapper/Hawkeye/BJ in chapter 12, Trapper/Hawkeye/BJ in chapter 14, does BJ have ptsd and some unhealthy coping mechanisms?, hell yes, is he repressed and trying to figure some shit out, the gang's all here, trans Max Klinger
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:20:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 69,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26553493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angryhausfrau/pseuds/angryhausfrau
Summary: Charles Winchester is getting married and his wedding hassomehowturned into a 4077 reunion. He has absolutely no idea how this happened, of course - it obviously has nothing to do with his telling Marjory about how much he misses all of them. How they feel more like his family in many ways than his own blood relations.
Relationships: "Trapper" John McIntyre/Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce, B. J. Hunnicutt/"Trapper" John McIntyre/Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce, B. J. Hunnicutt/Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce
Series: What is it That You're Fighting For [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1755769
Comments: 96
Kudos: 69





	1. Prologue

Marjory is bored out of her fucking mind.

Which is an unseemly sentiment, she knows – particularly when she's meant to be engaged in planning her own wedding. A wedding which she is actually looking forward to, despite her current aggravation. But it's true nonetheless.

Because honestly, there's only so many hours one can spend selecting table linens. At some point, the minute differences between ecru linen napkins and cream linen napkins just don't fucking matter anymore. And that point has come and gone. But Mother and Charles's grandmother are _still_ arguing about it.

At least she can bitch about it to Honoria later. Preferably over a glass of wine. Or a raging bonfire made of the reams and reams of notes Marjory's required to take on every minute, insignificant detail. Details which Honoria, as a lowly bridesmaid, is not made to sit through – lucky girl.

Family politics being what they are, Honoria would be part of the wedding party regardless of how either of them felt about it. But fortunately, they've become quite close friends since that first slightly awkward meeting. And Honoria has remained a staunch ally throughout the many battles of wills that have occurred over the course of planning the wedding of the decade. Because of  _ course _ the union between the Emerson Winchesters and the Oakes will be the wedding of the decade. And it's Marjory's job to get them there, even if she must wear a wig to the ceremony after pulling all her hair out in frustration over her various relatives' and soon-to-be relatives' conflicting tastes in flower arrangements.

Charles doesn't know how lucky he is getting to stick his hands in people's chest cavities all day. Particularly as the people are unconscious and therefore cannot express opinions on wedding dress style or candlestick height. But they all make sacrifices for the good of the family. And this is her particular cross to bear.

Still, there must me some way to ensure that the actual wedding is more than just a political showpiece.

* * *

“Hey, we got invited to the Winchester wedding.”

Trapper looks up from the bills he's paying. “Singly or collectively?”

“Well, it's addressed to both of us. But I imagine they assume we'll each bring someone else as a plus one.”

The question is, who to bring? Sure Hawkeye and Trapper each have a few girls they're friendly with down at the bar. But taking someone to a wedding seems like a pretty big step relationshipwise, and Hawkeye doesn't want to lead any of them on.

“Oh wait, Trapper, there's a note – Dear Hawkeye and Trapper... hope you can come, blah blah, also wanted to let you know we've invited Major Margaret Houlihan so you may wish to get in touch with her about attending before you RSVP blah blah Love, Marjory. So that's that problem solved – one of us takes Margaret and the other takes Kat. All nice and neat and heterosexual.”

“Beats going stag - this way we have someone to dance with. And Kat gets to go. That Marjory's one hell of a smart cookie.”

“And tactful,” Hawkeye adds. “What she's doing with Charles “Oblivious” Winchester, I'll never understand.”

They grin conspiratorially – Charles has interrupted date night several times now and he _still_ hasn't bought a clue.

“Well, there's no accounting for taste. But I'm glad she's on our side.” And Trapper goes back to balancing the check book.

“Only problem now is, what're we gonna do for a wedding present?” Trapper asks after he finishes and looks at the final balance. “It ain't like we can afford something they'd want. Or that they'd want to admit to owning.”

It's true. Even with two doctors' salaries, they don't make anything close to enough to buy a present for the man who has gold-plated toilet paper holders in his bathroom. And they don't want to get something cheap that they'll just throw away – because then they may as well just not buy a present.

“Well,” Hawkeye says consideringly, “if money's an object, we should probably try and pull at the old heart strings. Get them something sentimental that they'll want to cherish forever for all the good memories it evokes or whatever.”

Trapper nods. “That makes good sense, Hawkeye. Who knew you had it in you.”

“Oh fuck off. If you're going to insult me like this, then you can think up the gift idea.”

Trapper always was the idea man of their little duo anyway. Better to leave him to it.

Trapper ponders for a bit. Then says, “What about making them a quilt – and we each do a square. Cuz they've already invited us and Margaret, who knows how many other former 4077 inmates made the guest list. Probably at least BJ and Sidney. And they're all gonna be in the same boat, presentwise.”

“I like it. Killing multiple birds with one gift. And we all know how to sew at least a little – so that shouldn't be outside of anyone's ability.” Hawkeye pauses “Only question now is, who else is on the guest list?”

“Honoria's helping with the planning, ain't she? She might be able to find out.”

“Aha!” Hawkeye exclaims triumphantly. He loves it when a plan comes together. “Honoria and I are meeting up this afternoon – since _someone_ -” he looks pointedly at Trapper “-doesn't appreciate musical theater. I'll squeeze her for information then. You call Margaret and Kat and see which of them is willing to put up with you for an entire evening.”

Trapper flips him off playfully. “You're just jealous Margaret had the hots for me and not you.”

“As if!” Hawkeye exclaims, affronted. “I'm irresistible!”

“Uh huh, whatever helps you sleep at night.” And Trapper heads toward the phone. “Have fun at your interrogation, honey. I'll feel out Margaret to see if she thinks the quilt thing's a good idea or not.”

* * *

Margaret had liked the quilt idea – and she and Kat agreed to a double date with him and Trapper. So that's that problem solved. And fortunately, Honoria's willing to snitch for a good cause so Hawkeye gets the guest list pretty quickly. Now it's just down to coordinating everyone else.

Trapper takes one of the pages of the list Honoria'd slipped surreptitiously into Hawkeye's coat at their last little get together. “Looks like Steve and Letta and Sidney all got invited. They're close enough we can just call them up and ask if they wanna go in on the gift, so that's convenient.”

Hawkeye looks at his own page. “More good news, Trapper. Max is on the guest list, too.”

“Oh, thank God - someone who knows what she's doing. Think we can get her to take charge of this whole deal?”

Cuz it turns out that making a quilt involves significantly more work than Trapper had anticipated. And as Max is a professional seamstress, she probably has things like a sewing machine, or batting, or even just a big old piece of cloth to use for the back part.

“C'mon, Trap, let's write her now and ask. And we should write everyone else, to let them in on the plan.”

“I'll write Radar and the Padre. You better be the one to write BJ, otherwise he'll never agree to anything,” Trapper says, a little bitter.

It ain't his fault BJ still hasn't warmed up to him. And it ain't like they've gotta be best friends or nothing, but it'd be nice to all be able to be in the same room together without it feeling like sides are being drawn. With Hawkeye's favor some kinda token to be fought over.

“Right,” Hawkeye says tightly. Hawk's made it clear he ain't much more happy about the situation than Trapper is. But also that BJ's his friend and he ain't about to give that up. “I'll write Colonel Potter, and Donna Parker too since you never met them. Boy, Marjory sure has a sense of humor inviting Charles's former “wife” to his wedding.”

“I'm surprised Father Mulcahy made the cut – given how much Winchester hates the Irish, Catholics, and Irish Catholics.”

Though in fairness, Winchester has mellowed somewhat on that front since Trapper's known him. And the Padre's a pretty unobjectionable guy. But it kinda seems like Marjory – who'd been the one to draw up the list, according to Honoria – had just listened to Winchester's yearly drunken diatribe against all the MASH personnel and invited everyone he'd only pretended to hate outta obligation. Still, Trapper don't mind seeing some old faces – and meeting some new ones – at this shindig, so no skin off his teeth.

Even if it does mean more people to rope into their scheme.

* * *

Max gets a letter from Trapper – and it's not unexpected, exactly. They've been writing back and forth since she got back stateside.

First a Christmas card from both Trapper and Hawkeye – who are shacked up together now, surprise surprise.

Then Max wrote Trapper asking about Seong – making sure the kid didn't have anything wrong with him since he still wasn't talking for months and months of being home in Toledo and settled and safe.

And maybe Max knew Hawkeye better at that point. Been closer friends with him than Trapper cuz of going through all the real bad shit at the end of the war together. After all, they had almost two years of keeping each other the right kinda crazy – up till no one could do that for Hawkeye cuz what he'd seen was just too fucked up. And that kinda thing tends to bring folks together.

But Hawkeye wasn't the guy to go to with anything kid related on account of said fucked up shit. And sure, Max could've written to BJ – he's got kids too, and a toddler not kids in grade school already. But BJ'd been normal - the most normal outta all them 4077 folks. And he'd gone back home to his family, back to living his abnormally normal life, like some shining golden monument to God Bless America and apple pie. And she didn't wanna interrupt that.

So she'd written Trapper. Who kept insisting that he wasn't a pediatrician or a psychiatrist – and he'd tried to recommend both, but Trapper knows Max, knows Korea, knows what the kid's been through better than any so-called expert and she felt a lot more comfortable going to him than anyone she didn't know.

Plus, his parenting advice had been sound – the kid's gone from starvation skinny to plump and healthy and he's now babbling away at a mile a minute in three different languages.

And since Trapper's a family man, through and through – just absolutely loves kids, his own and other people's – that asking for advice had turned into writing more generally about family life, swapped kid photos, that kind of thing. Which is nice too, cuz Max don't have a ton of friends in Toledo who got kids she can ask for advice from. And sometimes asking family nets a whole bunch of conflicting advice that ignoring any part of would cause grave insult – so it's just easier asking someone who's hundreds of miles away and not related to her.

So they get to be friends – closer friends than they ever were in Korea. And so, when Max was figuring some stuff out about herself, they'd written about that too. Carefully, of course, and with enough misdirection and double talk to get past any of the army sensors from back in the day - Max still paranoid about other people reading her mail, and both of them knowing what could happen if the wrong eyes got the wrong impression. But they'd written. Cuz again, there ain't that many people out there who'd understand her – all the parts of her – from growing up a poor immigrant kid in the kinda neighborhood where being weak got you dead, to Korea, to being queer.

Hawkeye's really the only other one who maybe comes close. And Max ain't kidding herself that he don't know – that Trapper hadn't mentioned anything – since all Hawkeye's own letters refer to her right. But there's parts of Max's growing up that Hawkeye don't understand as well, so she'd gone to Trapper about it.

And maybe it ain't quite the same thing, the way the two of them are – though Max _is_ married to a woman, so they're more alike that way than she'd though. And what a woman. Soon Li is a diamond – strong and bright and with an edge to her that was forged in war. But she's kind and sweat and _gentle_ , too, when she's with Max and Seong and all the rest of her family.

And when Max realized that she felt most herself as herself – sharp and cunning and with teeth bared for a fight, but also pretty and fashionable and a woman – Soon Li'd just looked at Max like she was an idiot for thinking she'd have to remake herself into something smaller and softer and _less_ just cuz she's a woman. Loved and understood Max for all the parts of her – even the parts that made her a little rough around the edges. Helped Max realize that she could _be_ all the parts of her – even if everyone else said you had to choose.

Trapper'd understood that too, in his own way. Cuz, see, they'd slept together a couple times back in Korea. Just a fun little fling that didn't really mean anything to either of them. But Trapper'd looked at Max like she was beautiful. Treated her like she was pretty and feminine when she'd responded to that – without really knowing why at the time. And then he'd ribbed her good-naturedly at the next night's poker game, like she was still the same person she'd always been – tough and crass and crafty. Like those two things didn't have to cancel each other out.

So Max had trusted Trapper with the truth of herself as she learned just what the fuck that actually was. And they'd grown close on account of it.

So it's not a surprise that Max gets a letter from Trapper – but the subject of it kinda is.

_Dear Max,_  
_A little birdy told me that you got invited to the Winchester wedding. Well, so did me and Hawkeye and a bunch of other MASH vets. There's a whole list of 'em with addresses included in this letter if you end up agreeing to the proposition I got – and not like that! You're a married woman now._  
_**Not that that stopped either of you before, you rogues. (Just kidding, Soon Li. Promise.)** _

Apparently the letter is from Hawkeye as well.

_The proposition is this. See, I figure you and me and all the rest of us wedding guests ain't exactly in a position to buy Winchester anything he wants or needs cuz he's a rich bastard and we're all just culturally defficient plebeians (his words.) So Hawkeye figures that we oughtta get him something sentimental. Something that makes him feel guilty for even considering throwing out._  
_**Just really hit him where it hurts emotionally.** _  
_And I had the idea of making up a quilt. Each of us doing a square of it and then sewing it all together. And Margaret and Steve and Sidney and Letta all think it's a pretty good idea – we're polling the others on it, but it's via letter so we ain't got answers back yet. But it seems like the plan's a go._  
_And I ain't exactly a professional seamstress – not like you are. (I'm buttering you up a little, at Hawkeye's request. Is it working? You're also nice and kind and helpful and did I mention nice? Ugh, this is making me sick. You're a conniving bastard and we both know it – please help regardless.)_  
_**I maintain it's a solid plan. You just weren't flattering enough, Trap. You've got to really lay it on with a shovel. What happened to the guy who could get nurses to go out with him just with a look?** _  
_Maybe that's the problem – no eye contact in a letter._  
_Anyway, I got no idea how to put everything together once all the pieces are done and make it look nice. So I was wondering if you maybe wanted to take charge of this little project._  
_Lemme know either way – Hawkeye thinks he can sweet talk Mrs. Potter into doing it if you ain't got time._  
_**There's no “think” about it - I absolutely can. I'm a master of convincing people to do stupid things they really shouldn't. And Mrs. Potter apparently has a soft spot for incorrigible pranksters - which explains her decades of marriage to Sherm, I guess. But between those two facts, it's a sure bet. So stop maligning me, Trapper!** _  
_So no pressure, Max. I know you're busy with running a business and having a family and all. Speaking of, I hope Soon Li and Seong are well – from your last letter, it sounds like the kid's gonna take after you in the smooth-talking department. And in three languages, yet. You must be real proud._  
_Hope to hear from you soon._  
_Your friends,_  
_Trapper John_  
_**And Hawkeye** _

Max laughs as she reads the letter. The back and forth almost like having a real conversation. She's missed that – missed her friends. So she writes back right away.

_Dear Trapper and Hawkeye (who is definitely not reading this over his shoulder),_  
_Of course I'll help, what kinda friend do you take me for?_  
_Don't answer that._  
_Anyhow, I think the quilt's a real good idea. A little piece of all us 4077 folks together in one place. That's real sappy. Even Dr. Winchester ain't gonna be able to pretend to turn his nose up at it._  
_And you were right to come to me about it – seeing as you don't know a back stitch from a blanket stitch. I'll write all the folks on your list letting 'em know I'm taking over the project and to send their squares to me. And the dozens and dozens of questions I'm sure I'll get. So thanks a lot for that, guys._  
_It's late and I don't got much more to say other than Soon Li and Seong are doing good – I'll send a more detailed report in another letter, don't worry. I've been saving up some real cute pictures of the kid for your refrigerator. So keep an eye out for another letter soon._  
_And I guess I'll be seeing you in person pretty soon too. It'll be nice to catch up face-to-face, you know? Till then, I hope you're both well._  
_Your friend,_  
_Max_

To be perfectly honest, Max has never made a quilt before either – which in hindsight is pretty stupid, given how cold Korea got in winter. But she does know how to do more than mend holes and darn socks. And she has made a quilted housecoat before and it ain't that different. So.

“Fear not, friends! Maxine Q. Klinger is on the case.” Cuz despite her status as a conniving bastard, Max ain't one to leave friends in a lurch. And it does solve the problem of what to get for Charles “Snobbery is my Middle Name” Winchester.

Soon Li laughs at her, but she'd gotten Max's sketch book as soon as she'd finished reading the letter herself. And all she says is, “Don't stay up too late plotting, jagiya.”

Allah, but Max loves her.

By the time Max comes to bed, she's got a rough sketch of a couple ideas and a whole bunch of scrawled notes. And of course, the final design'll depend on who all's participating in this little venture. But it's a start.


	2. California Dreaming

“Letter for you dear – it's from Hawkeye.”

BJ rushes to collect the letter from the kitchen table.

He and Hawkeye have been writing back and forth since they got home – Hawkeye since literally the day after he landed stateside – and they average several letters a month. Simple letters about simple lives. But each letter is a precious connection to the man he'd been best friends with in Korea – and BJ still feels the same fluttering excitement at this letter as he did the first.

He kisses Peg on the cheek, pours himself a drink, and retreats to his office. This is something to be savored.

And of course he'll tell Peg everything in the letter – Hawkeye always includes plenty of amusing gossip – but BJ likes that first read through or five to be his alone. Likes to let the rest of the world fall away, let the sounds of his wife and children and the steady thrum of the washing machine be muffled by the closed door and the haze of memory and pretend it's just him and Hawkeye alone in the Swamp again.

BJ settles back in his chair and lets the sense of anticipation build as he slides the letter opener between the flaps of the envelope. He's taken to keeping all of Hawkeye's letters in a box in his office and he likes to keep everything intact, just the way Hawkeye sent it. Trying to hold as much of Hawkeye here with him as he can.

But it's difficult, what with hundreds of miles between them. With lives and jobs and responsibilities.

With families.

BJ had spent all of his time in Korea hoping and dreaming and aching to be back with his family. Back with Peg, the love of his life. Back with Erin, who he hardly knew – who he'd been torn away from. Kept from watching and helping through all those firsts – first word, first step, first tooth.

They've made up for it since then, BJ being there for a whole new slew of firsts – first day at preschool, first ride on the Ferris wheel, first time going swimming. And with another baby in the house, he'd more than made up for all the diapers he'd missed changing, all the waking in the middle of the night for episodes of colic, all the messy terrible wonder of it all.

He wouldn't trade it for anything in the world.

And that's saying nothing of Peg - his wife, his partner, the woman he loves to death. The woman who'd kept him afloat through the worst parts of his life. Been a buoy through the overwhelming deluge of residency. Been a tether to home through the turbulence of the Korean war.

BJ loves her so much it hurts.

But he finds himself missing Hawkeye, too. In the quiet of the evening, when Peg and the kids have gone up to bed and BJ's had a few drinks and he's just the right side of sloppily nostalgic, he lets himself ache for the breathless Korean summer nights when it was so hot you were glued to your cot but too warm to even think about sleeping. Nights when he'd lain awake with Hawkeye awake across the tent from him. Not talking, not even looking at each other. But BJ so, so aware of Hawkeye laying there – shirtless and gleaming in the moonlight that filtered in through the open sides of the tent.

He aches for those nights, and for Hawkeye's uncomplicated presence in his life.

Not much about Hawkeye can be considered uncomplicated. But in those moments, when there were no expectations of each other, nothing voiced aloud – when they could just _be_ with one another. BJ misses that. Misses that sense of peace, of understanding.

So each letter from Hawkeye – each line of connection stretching out between them – is precious. A reminder that their friendship is special. Something to be kept locked in BJ's heart alongside his love for Peg and his kids.

Don't get him wrong, BJ has plenty of other friends – fellow professors at Stanford, old college buddies. His motorcycle club. And there's a few guys in the club who remind him of Hawkeye, actually. But it's not the same. And when BJ gets drunk enough to turn maudlin – the kind of drunk that sees him sleeping in the guest bedroom instead of with Peg – he can admit to himself that he wishes Hawkeye was here with him.

They'd been such a large part of each other's lives – practically joined at the hip twenty-four seven for over a year. And then Hawkeye had just been gone. On the opposite side of the country and living his own life.

His life without BJ. And with Trapper.

So many of Hawkeye's early letters talked incessantly about that smarmy bastard. And, BJ knows logically, it makes sense that Hawkeye would talk about him. After all, they live together.

_Trapper_ gets to be in Hawkeye's life everyday.  _Trapper_ doesn't have to communicate solely through letters for over a year – with only one too short, too confusing visit to tide him over until the next time he can plausibly go see Hawkeye.  _Trapper_ gets to have some weird domestic little setup with Hawkeye – like they're fucking married or something. Cooking for each other and keeping house together and-.

BJ is jealous as hell.

And it had bled into his letters to Hawkeye. All BJ's jealousy and resentment and longing had been too much to hide. And it had come out in angry, snide little jabs at Trapper - at Trapper's character and opinions and abilities as a surgeon.

Eventually, Hawkeye must have gotten sick of it because he'd stopped writing about Trapper at all. There's holes now in all his letters where Trapper used to live. It's not exactly better – BJ knows Trapper is still in Hawkeye's life. But the childish, jealous,  _mean_ part of him is glad he doesn't have it shoved in his face anymore.

Until now, anyway. Because Trapper's all over Hawkeye's latest letter.

* * *

Trapper gets all the way through his letters to Max and Radar and Father Mulcahy by the time Hawkeye finishes his letter to BJ.

And part of it is that Hawkeye's just more verbose than Trapper – both out loud and in writing. Trapper's letters during the war were always pretty short and not overly flowery. Whereas Hawkeye can spin a yarn to rival the Homeric epics – and enjoys doing so when he's got an appreciative audience. Trapper's girls, for instance.

But part of it is that writing to BJ takes careful thought. Strategy. An intimate knowledge of all of BJ's sore spots – and how to avoid them.

And BJ's biggest sore spot is Trapper. Which is unfortunate, because Trapper features pretty prominently in Hawkeye's life, for some reason. Like, oh, they're living together.

Sure, Hawkeye has other friends. And Trapper does too. But at the end of the day, they're in each other's lives nearly constantly. Trapper's family is Hawkeye's family and Hawkeye's is Trapper's. They spend an awful lot of time together, even without their relationship coming into things. And it gets pretty difficult writing about his life without mentioning Trapper at all.

But if Hawkeye mentions Trapper, then BJ gets huffy. And it's no fun writing a guy who makes the rude kind of sarcastic comments about your ~~lover~~ ~~best friend~~ partner. So Hawkeye's taken to editing him out. Explicit mentions, anyway – cuz there's no real way to completely remove Trapper from his life, they're just too intertwined for that to be possible.

And it's not like Hawkeye really wants to try that hard, anyway. It's BJ's problem that he can't handle Hawkeye having another “best friend.” But still, tact is required – so he starts the letter kind of easing into things.

_Dear BJ,_

_I hope you and Peg and the kids are well._

_From you last letter, it sounds like Peg's keeping you plenty busy getting ready for Christmas – including getting you to buy a flocking gun. BJ, I thought you were a pacifist! All those months in Korea and you never touched a gun. And you get back home and what do you do? Open fire on a bunch of defenseless palm trees. (I'm joking, I know you're too far north for that. You live in the land of towering pines, as you keep reminding me with photos of your new house. It sure looks nice – maybe someday I'll even get to see it in person. It'd be nice to get a look at it without your thumb covering half the view.) At any rate, you made a great Father Christmas for all the orphanage kids, so you shouldn't disappoint at the Church pageant. Even if you are handicapped by your lack of mustache._

There, that ought to put BJ in a good mood. He loves talking about his family.

Unfortunately for BJ's equanimity, most of what Hawkeye's been up to this past week has involved Trapper and the girls. Still, a little careful editing of events (and pronouns) and Trapper's name doesn't need to be mentioned. After all, Hawkeye's trying to butter BJ up here, get him to go along with Trapper's gift idea, not put him in a snit.

_Speaking of flocking - get your mind out of the gutter Beej, I know what jokes you're making to yourself - it's strange for this New England lad to imagine having to make **fake** snow. We've got enough of the real stuff around here to last until July. We were planning to go up to visit Dad around Thanksgiving like we did last year, since the kids enjoyed it so much, but a storm blew in and they closed the Boston to Maine line and we had to stay home. Still, the girls had a good time making snow forts in the back yard. And all of Kathy's experience as a softball champ really helped her whup our butts in a snowball fight – I don't think I've ever faced such a resounding defeat sportswise. _

_And then we made cookies to send to my dad to make up for not visiting. I've sent along a few for you and the family._ Because a little bribery never hurt anyone. _Becky made one special for Peg on account of the new baby – it's the sort of oval one that's meant to be a baby in a manger. I hope you enjoy them. I had absolutely nothing to do with their creation – other than drinking hot chocolate and kibitzing while they were getting made – so they turned out pretty edible. The girls have really improved on their cookies since those first ones they shipped me in Korea. I think most of those ended up in the rock-skipping competition._

BJ must think Hawkeye's awfully full of himself, using the royal we so frequently. That or he realizes that Hawkeye actually means him and Trapper when he uses it but has decided it's not worth getting angry about _that_ as long as Trapper's name goes unmentioned. BJ's drawn stranger lines in the sand.

So has Hawkeye, come to think of it. But it's frustrating to have to edit his life so much. He's already lying by omission to so many people about the truth of his relationship with Trapper. And it's not like Hawkeye doesn't understand the necessity of discretion – he doesn't actually _want_ to get arrested – but to have to hide the truth of himself from his own best friend is hard.

But Hawkeye doesn't know how to broach the subject. Particularly when BJ's so touchy about everything Trapper. Maybe he'll have a chance to talk things through if he sees BJ in person – or at least ask why he's got his shirt in a knot ever since his visit last spring. Because he wasn't nearly so weird about things before then – content to ignore Hawkeye's mentions of Trapper rather than make snide comments about him. But Hawkeye can't interrogate him unless he actually shows up, so he'd better get to that part of the letter.

_Speaking of terrible things from Korea, Charles's wedding is coming up in just six short months. Why we need that long of a heads up about it I'm sure I don't know – but then again, I'm not a beacon of class and taste. Or ridiculously loaded – whatever the impetus is there. Regardless, I heard through the grapevine that you've been invited to the wedding. Since I miraculously made the cut - along with several other members of the 4077 – I wanted to see if you'd planned on attending. I think the whole deal will be much more fun with as many of us miscreants as possible in attendance to balance out the stuffed shirts._

_Anyway, if you're planning on going, we've got a little scheme you might be interested in. Charles is richer than rich and a snob to boot so we can't all get him something that he'd want individually – not without breaking the bank. But we – all us MASH guys - could all pitch in on something and get him a present he actually likes. And I had the idea of doing something sentimental, to really make sure he appreciates the gift and doesn't just open it right into the garbage can. And the idea of doing a quilt got suggested - and Margaret and Sidney and Steve are all for it - so I'm asking around to see if anyone else wants in. We're petitioning Max to take charge of the project – so expect a letter from Toledo. I don't know if you've already got a gift idea – or if you're planning on attending the wedding at all - but if you want in, the offer's open._

This next part, Hawkeye isn't one-hundred percent sure about. But when he'd asked Trapper what he thought of the idea, he'd just shrugged and said he's fine with whatever. Sometimes Hawkeye gets a little aggravated by how easy-going Trapper can be.

It's not that Hawkeye wants him to be jealous. Or for him to start a fight with BJ – the fight that BJ himself is clearly gunning for. But when he asks for Trapper's opinion, he honestly wants to hear it.

“C'mon, Trapper. I honestly want to hear your opinion.”

Trapper sighs. “Ok, fine. I just – I know BJ's your friend and I don't wanna badmouth him, you know? But I'm getting kinda tired of him getting all up-in-arms every time you so much as mention me. I tried to get along with him when he visited - and I thought I did a pretty good job of it - so I got no idea what I did to make him hate me so much. But I think it's pretty damn petty of him to make you kinda tip toe around him when you write.”

Trapper pauses. He could say more here – more about his impression of BJ's character and his friendship with Hawkeye - but he ain't trying to start a fight. Just avoid one with BJ.

“So anyway. I don't mind if you invite him to stay an extra day – he's your friend and you don't get a lot of chances to see him. But I don't know that I'll want to stick around for it.”

Having said his piece, Trapper heads off to make dinner while Hawkeye mulls all that over. He knows Trapper's right about the way BJ's been acting – it's petty and silly and Hawkeye's been getting kind of tired of it himself, to be honest. But Hawkeye's always been one to try and keep the peace, the one to try to keep everyone together and afloat through tough times.

And it's difficult – painful – the idea of losing BJ's friendship. He means so much to Hawkeye. They'd been through so much together. When he'd told BJ he'd never be able to shake him, Hawkeye had meant it. There's a big old BJ shaped place in Hawkeye's life that he doesn't want to have to try and fill over.

But BJ could be making a little bit more of an effort here, too. Profess an interest in Hawkeye's life – all the parts of Hawkeye's life – the way Hawkeye had listened to BJ's endless chatter about his wife and daughter and all the minutia of their lives. Even though Hawkeye had no frame of reference for raising a kid or having a wife, no real interest in the topic outside of BJ wanting to talk about it.

And Hawkeye's maybe feeling a little petty himself. A little annoyed at BJ's insistence that Hawkeye bend over backwards for him without really reciprocating. So he goes back and rewrites the letter to explicitly mention Trapper where before there had just been euphemism. Even if it means BJ won't go along with the gift idea.

But Hawkeye does value BJ's friendship. Does want to see him. So he adds on the extra part inviting him and Peg to visit.

_Speaking of offers, I was wondering if you and Peg wanted to stay over an extra couple of days in Boston after the wedding (assuming you're going.) I've never met Peg, but I'd really like a chance to get to know her. And I don't see you nearly often enough. We have a bunch of time before anything needs to be settled, but I'd love to see you for more than just a wedding reception – particularly one that's being run by Charles Winchester._  
_I hope to hear from you soon (and maybe see you in half a year.)_  
_Your friend,_  
_Hawkeye_

There, that ought to do it.

* * *

Peg looks up from her book as BJ emerges from his office. His face is a thundercloud and Hawkeye's letter is crumpled in his fist.

Peg sighs.

Letters from Hawkeye usually leave BJ floating on air – his face alight with joy and his gestures expansive as he recounts the latest news from Boston. But when things swing the other way – when the letters contain something that reminds BJ of the bad parts of the war, of all the things he's lost – he gets angry like Peg's never seen.

It's like something came back with him from Korea – something deep and angry and wild riding her husband. Peg doesn't know where it came from, or what causes it to come out, most of the time. She doesn't know how to make it go away.

But when BJ gets the bottle of bottom-shelf gin out of the liquor cabinet – the one he says almost tastes like the homemade hooch that came out of Hawkeye's still in Korea – Peg knows she's in for a long night.

So she calls up her mother-in-law, asks if she can keep the kids overnight. Puts away anything she doesn't want to see broken – all the nick-knacks and souvenirs of her and BJ's life together tucked safely away in the cabinets experience has taught her he won't try to open. Peg battens down the hatches and waits for the storm to blow over.

Eventually, BJ reaches the stage of drunk where he's wrecked his office and yelled himself out and he's just sitting drunkenly at the kitchen table, staring at the bottom of his empty glass. Peg sits down across from him. Watches him pour another measure from a new bottle and drink that too. Waits for him to tell her what's wrong.

“Hawkeye's asking if we're planning to be at Charles's wedding,” BJ starts with a vehemence the statement really doesn't warrant, as far as Peg can tell. “Wants to know if he'll see us there.”

“He's going, then?” Peg asks delicately. Trying to figure out what's bothering her husband without getting him any more upset than he already is.

“Yep.” BJ bits out. “He and Trapper will both be there.”

Ah. There it is. If anything is guaranteed to put BJ in a less than charitable mood, it's mentions of Trapper John McIntyre.

“That doesn't mean you need to interact with Trapper, dear. It's not like you'll be forced to spend time with him.”

BJ snorts derisively. “Trapper hangs off Hawkeye like they're joined together surgically. There's no way I'll get to see one without the other.”

And that's to say nothing of Hawkeye's regard for Trapper. Trapper, Trapper, Trapper. The whole fucking letter was full of Trapper. Trapper did this, Trapper thinks that, Trapper had this idea. Hawkeye couldn't go a sentence without mentioning Trapper. It makes BJ sick to his stomach, so he drinks another glass of gin.

“And apparently, Trapper had some big idea about us MASH docs all making Charles a wedding present together. Like we're all some big, happy family. And Hawkeye wants to do it, so that means I have to too.”

Never mind that Max is the one actually running things. And that BJ probably won't have to have anything to do with Trapper or his dumb stupid self. It's the principle of the matter.

“And if that wasn't enough, we got invited to stay over at Hawkeye's house an extra couple of days.”

“That sounds nice,” Peg says encouragingly. BJ's calmed down enough to have a coherent conversation at this point and she'd like to keep as positive a spin on things as she can. “I'd sure like to spend some time getting to know Hawkeye after hearing so much about him from you.”

“You don't understand,” BJ interrupts sharply. “If we visit for longer, then we'll stay overnight at Hawkeye's house. And that means that Hawkeye will give up his room. And that means he and Trapper will sleep together.”

“I know you think Hawkeye and Trapper are... together,” Peg says gently, placatingly. “But you can't think they'd do anything untoward with us right next door.”

BJ does think that, though. He thinks about it a lot.

About that night he'd stayed over at Hawkeye's house, in Hawkeye's bedroom – leaving Hawkeye to sleep with Trapper. About Hawkeye – beautiful, unreal, gorgeous Hawkeye – and Trapper – with his stupid muscles and his stupid smirk and his stupid _everything_ – laying together in the dark. About them kissing each other. Cuz BJ may hate the guy, but he has to admit that Trapper's attractive – just objectively speaking. Anyone would be attracted to him. And Hawkeye's beautiful and so passionate and-. There's no way they wouldn't kiss one another. And BJ can imagine it so clearly – their mouths slick and panting, tongues sliding against each other.

Hips grinding.

And that leads BJ to thinking about Hawkeye and Trapper having sex. Trapper taking Hawkeye while BJ's right next door – rough and hard and loud enough there's no mistaking what's happening. All the little sounds he's heard Hawkeye make from across the Swamp in the middle of the night – all those little sighs and moans of pleasure – being caused by _Trapper_ while BJ's forced to just lay there and listen to it through the wall. Forced to imagine what Hawkeye looks like when he's being taken by another man, forced to imagine what Hawkeye looks like when he orgasms. Forced to imagine Hawkeye and Trapper look like all cuddled up together in the afterglow.

Anger – it's anger, it  _has_ to be anger – squirms in BJ's guts. He drinks another glass of gin.

“I'm not putting up with that shit,” BJ mumbles. “Not again.”

Because however bad imagining it is,  _knowing_ would be worse. 

BJ lapses back into silence. And he's clearly still angry, but he seems to have moved past the more explosive sort of anger and into something a little less disruptive. And if he's just going to stare at the bottom of a glass all night, she's going to bed.

“Maybe just sleep on it, dear, before you make any decisions,” Peg says gently. “I'm going to bed now. We can talk about this more in the morning.”

BJ looks blearily up at her, almost like he'd forgotten she was there. Definitely time for her to go to bed. She pours BJ a glass of water and kisses him gently on the forehead before she heads upstairs - and through it all, he just sits there, staring down at his empty glass.

Peg vows that she's going to get to the bottom of all of this, even if she has to use a team of wild horses to drag the truth out of BJ.


	3. Blood and Water and All That Rot

Charles cannot believe what Marjory has done. It's ruinous. Calamitous.

It's really very kind and thoughtful of her.

Because – and here, Charles pauses for a world weary sigh – he really was not looking forward to participating in the sort of political showpiece his wedding was rapidly becoming.

Charles understands familial duty - of course he does. He's a Winchester, of the Back Bay Winchesters. His blood is bluer than the depths of the Atlantic. He has been raised, been bred, with a perfect understanding of what his name and his position in society means. And an understanding of just how tenuous maintaining that position, and that reproachless name, actually is.

He is the third of his family to bear the name Charles Emerson Winchester, a symbol of the enduring alliance between the Emerson and Winchester families. A solemn promise to carry that alliance into the future, to safeguard and to improve upon his family's circumstances.

And as Honoria has made it quite plain that she never intends to make a suitable match – lucky scamp - it falls to Charles to build new such alliances. To shore up the family against those enemies – both without and within _(ahem_ Cousin Alfred _ahem_ ) – who would see him brought to ruin that they may rise in his place. So Charles understands his duty, understands that his wedding must be a show of strength and opulence and the superiority of the Emerson-Winchesters over the rest of Boston high society.

But he's been to other such events. Never so grand, of course – the joining of the Emerson-Winchester and the Oakes families is a singularly prosperous alliance – but Charles has decades of being dragged to such balls and weddings and parties. First by his parents and then, as he grew older, by social obligation. And they are all interminably boring.

No one, other than perhaps the maiden aunts, who live on sweet sherry and malicious gossip, actually wants to be there. It's a duty, an obligation. Something to be endured rather than enjoyed.

But Charles actually loves Marjory, as strange an idea as that might sound given how rarely these matches are made for reasons other than the political. His own parents had dutifully produced an heir and a daughter and then retreated to separate bedroom suites – and, Charles is sure, separate lovers – as soon as their duty to the family was done. But Charles loves Marjory and he wants his wedding to be a genuine celebration of his feelings. An event to be enjoyed, a memory to be treasured into his dotage, something he and Marjory can someday look at the photographs and mementos from and reminisce about what a wonderful day it was, embarrassing the captive audience of children and grandchildren - and perhaps great grandchildren, if Charles is truly fortunate – with their pure, disgusting sentimentality. Charles wants his wedding to be something he does not merely have to suffer through in the name of familial duty.

And Marjory – Goddess among women that she is – has clearly realized Charles's sentiments on the matter, and perhaps even reciprocates – the two of them as in-tune with one another in this as they have been throughout the rest of their courtship – because she has done something rather unthinkable. Marjory has invited people Charles actually _likes_ to the wedding.

Namely the lower-class hoodlums Charles had associated with so begrudgingly in Korea. And with whom, Charles is now realizing, he formed a closer bond with than most of his “friends” in the social circles he's meant to navigate as a scion of one of Boston's foremost families. Indeed, as the wedding planning progresses and he is forced to interact with increasing numbers of grasping family members attempting to curry favor – and solicit a wedding invitation – Charles finds himself preferring the company of his friends even above that of his blood family.

Individuals he had always looked up to as paragons of refinement and models of decorum are rather proving themselves wanting in his eyes.

Individuals such as Grandmama – who is, of course, incensed by the inclusion of “vagabonds and wastrels” (as well as some epithets which do _not_ bear repeating) on the guest list. In fact, she is nearly incoherent with rage - her face a blotchy red as she storms through the halls, the guest list clutched in her shaking fist. Finally, her stampede – followed by a cowed but curious parade of Winchesters – terminates in the blue parlor, punctuated by a particularly vicious jab of her gnarled and accusatory finger at Charles.

“You!” Grandmama screeches as she hurls the list towards him. “Explain this!”

It is through these events that Charles discovers his fiance's actions. He makes a note to go and thank her – once the yelling has subsided, of course.

* * *

“My dear,” Charles says, when he finally encounters Marjory in the study – hiding from the commotion, presumably. “I've been looking for you all over.”

He sits next to her on the divan, hands brushing – propriety be damned, Charles needs to express his gratitude towards her.

He takes her hand and her face turns towards his. “I wanted to thank you for what you did.”

She looks rather forlorn for someone who has just saved Charles from certain boredom. “And here I was, hoping to find you to apologize.”

“Whatever do you want to apologize for?”

Marjory laughs a sarcastic little laugh. “What do you think, Charles? I've caused such a disturbance – your grandmother must be absolutely livid. I could hear her shouting from all the way up here. I wouldn't be surprised if the wedding got called off on account of my deplorable behavior.”

“Marjory! You must know I would never allow that to happen.”

“But you cannot deny that she was angry enough to at least consider it.”

“She was incensed of course. But since the invitations have already been issued, there is no way to rescind them without appearing gauche.”

Though Grandmama had still ordered Charles to do just that – saying that of course the lower classes would have no frame of reference for decorum and therefor wouldn't feel the snub.

“And,” Charles adds reassuringly, “I was able to impress upon her the necessity of my inviting each and every undesirable name on that list.”

Marjory laughs – a much brighter and happier laugh this time. “You silver-tongued rogue! How exactly did you manage that?”

“Well, Hawkeye and Letta are members of the board of trustees for one of my largest charitable contributions.” And therefore, tax write-offs. “It makes sense to... maintain a healthy business relationship with them.”

“Oh certainly,” Marjory says primly. “It has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that those two idiots who lost you all that money will be at the wedding and you want to see them sweat.”

Charles laughs. “That may have been mentioned as well. Grandmama appreciates the importance of vengeance.”

Marjory is well aware of this fact – the Emerson-Winchesters didn't rise to such prominence in Boston society by being _nice_. She's just grateful that Charles appears to have cooled his grandmother's ire and removed the blame for this... incident from her and Honoria's shoulders – because Honoria had been the one to initially suggest the idea and should therefore take some of the blame, even if Charles has no idea of her involvement.

“The rest of the medical personnel,” Charles continues, “are perfectly obvious connections to foster. Among their number are several ivy-league surgeons, one of whom is my co-worker at Boston Mercy – and who is being groomed to take over running Emergency Medicine when the current head finally retires a decade from now – or dies at his post, whichever comes first. And that places the two of us on nearly equal social footing. It would be seen as a snub not to invite him. Another doctor on the guest list holds a research and teaching position at Stanford, a connection well worth strengthening. And the final individual – who trained at Johns Hopkins, need I remind you – is currently under the wing of Hawkeye's father. The same Hawkeye who's invitation has already been well established as necessary.”

“Compelling arguments, indeed,” Marjory says. There's a spark of laughter in her eyes, encouraging Charles to continue.

“Sidney Freedman is, of course, a forerunner in his field and widely published in several psychiatric journals, including those of the American Psychiatric Association. It would be foolish not to maintain that connection. Particularly if I wish to be included in his upcoming paper on Battle Fatigue and cardiac stress.”

“A feather in the Winchester cap, indeed.” Marjory knows that even though Charles has secured the position of head thoracic surgeon at Boston Mercy, hospital politics would see him dethroned should he ever prove less than exceptional. And little accolades like publication in reputable medical journals go a long way in securing his position.

“As for Margaret – from the sounds of it, she's practically running Fort Dix single-handedly. And she's the one responsible for implementing the nurse triage initiative in field hospitals. An initiative that is currently finding great success in Vietnam and other such outposts of benevolent democratic intervention.” Here, Charles rolls his eyes theatrically – all of Hawkeye's anti-war lectures having rather worn off on him over the years. “At any rate, it would be foolishness itself not to invite her to the small medical conference that is sure to break out once the wedding festivities are over. Indeed, I'd be surprised if several papers don't find their beginnings in our wedding reception – certainly a legacy worthy of the Winchester name.”

“And what of the non-medical individuals on the guest list? Surely they were not so easily explained away.” Not least because Charles is rather less charitable towards them than those he is more outwardly of a kind with.

“Hah! I placed the blame for Mr. O'Reily's invitation squarely on Mother and Father. After all, they were the ones who had such a splendid time with Mrs. O'Reily and “Uncle Ed” that they invited young Radar to summer with us on the Cape. As far as Grandmama knows, I am simply keeping that bargain without subjecting us all to an entire week or more of his quaint little Iowa-isms. She looked upon his invitation quite favorably after that.”

“Well played indeed, dear.”

“Max, of course has a myriad of influential political and “business” connections throughout the Middle West. And, while my interests remain largely medical, I am expected to have a larger hand in stewarding the Winchester fortune after we are wed. It makes sense to get the lay of the land – as it were - from one with their ear to the ground.”

Charles pauses.

“The fact that Max saved my life may have also entered into the conversation.”

Marjory squeezes his hand in comfort.

“Not much one can really say in the face of that,” Charles says – obviously trying for equanimity. Trying, but not quite succeeding.

“Not without appearing entirely _too_ heartless, at any rate,” Marjory adds lightly.

And Charles snorts disparagingly but at least he's lost that rather desperate look he gets sometimes when he thinks about the wrong parts of the Korean war.

“Grandmama has never been overly concerned with appearing to have a heart. But she was eventually persuaded to allow Max a place on the guest list when it looked as if everyone else in the room would protest most vehemently if she did not. Indeed, cousin Alfred's wife appeared near tears at the story – tears that could have easily turned to rage given how high-strung she is.”

“Well, she's not one of the upper crust, is she?” Marjory asks rhetorically. “She's not used to callous indifference towards one's relations.”

“It is the cornerstone of gentility,” Charles says snidely. Then he sighs. “At least Honoria turned out a decent human being – one of two isn't bad odds.”

“You're rather decent yourself, dear. When you feel you can let yourself be.” Marjory pats his arm consolingly. “That's – well, that's rather the reason I invited your friends from Korea. You deserve to have people you can behave half-decently towards at your own damn wedding, instead of spending the entire night in political posturing and snide jabs.”

Charles takes her hand and kisses the back of it.

“And I thank you for that. As I thank God everyday that you have agreed to marry me – truly I would be lost without you.”

“Charles, you big sap.” Marjory pushes him gently away, but she's smiling. “You can't just say things like that – people will begin to think we love one another and the wedding will be called off.”

“Then I'd run off and elope with you. Marjory. I cannot fathom living my life without you by my side. Whatever I must do to secure such a thing – know that I will do it.”

Marjory laughs. “That's why I invited a priest. Just in case we needed to hold a ceremony on the lamb.”

Charles laughs too, and then turns serious. “You know, Father Mulcahy presided over weddings for several of the MASH personnel. Margaret certainly. And Max was married by him twice over. Had Grandmama not raised my ire so, I would have protested his inclusion – we were never close, and he can be rather... cutting in his way. But it  _is_ rather fitting he be present at our wedding, even if it's not in his official capacity.” Charles looks at her with deep affection. “Once again, you prove yourself several steps ahead of me, my dear.”

Marjory smiles rather smugly. Though in fairness, it was Honoria who had made the suggestion. Apparently she'd been subjected to more than one diatribe on the subject of the Irish Catholic priest who had no time nor appreciation for Charles's wealth or pedigree and felt that he would make a rather welcome addition to the guest list.

Honoria always did appreciate Marjory's disinclination to take Charles too seriously – a trait the Father apparently shares.

Speaking of the devil, Honoria bursts through the door of the study in a flurry of gauzy scarves.

“Th-there you t-t-two are! I was so w-worried when I heard w-what happened. Grandmama had no right t-to speak to you like th-that!”

“It's quite all right, Honoria. She said nothing to me that I take any stock in. And I've managed to persuade Grandmama to accept my rather... unusual wedding guests. At present, I am simply expressing my appreciation to Marjory for her inviting them in the first place.”

“Th-that and canoodling,” Honoria says with a suggestive waggle of her eyebrows.

Marjory blushes at the realization that she and Charles are sitting in a rather compromising position. Thank goodness it was only Honoria who walked in on them. Marjory shifts on the settee so that they are no longer pressed together.

Oblivious to Honoria's shrewd gaze upon Marjory's movements, Charles puffs up in affront.

“I certainly don't _canoodle_.”

“Hah!” Marjory exclaims in disbelief - she very well knows that Charles has significant _experience_. And despite the fact that she's wearing white to the wedding, she's no blushing virgin either.

“W-well, canoodling or not, you can't st-stay up here just the t-t-two of you. Grandmama really w-would have a fit.”

“What do you suggest, oh most generous and helpful chaperon?” Marjory inquires, perhaps a little meanly. But Honoria missed out on all the theatrics earlier so the least she can do is spend a bit of time with her and Charles now that she's finally deigned to grace them with her presence.

* * *

“Charles!” Hawkeye exclaims. “What are you doing here?”

Apparently, Hawkeye's at their little neighborhood haunt tonight. And where one is, the other cannot be far behind.

“Yeah, Charles.” Trapper claps a companionable hand on his shoulder.

And he should bristle at the familiarity – but he's secretly rather glad to find them here.

“Not that I'm not glad to see you,” Trapper continues. “But I'm pretty sure today's Friday – and Friday of the week we don't play poker. Though after the shift I just had, I'm lucky I remember my own name, much less the days of the week.”

“I, for one, am always shocked to see that you have managed to successfully dress yourself – let alone express a mastery over names, dates, or places,” Charles answers deadpan.

But Hawkeye's drawled “Ouch, Trap – he's got you there.” betrays the fact that they both know he's joking.

As does Trapper's muttered, “Boy, a guy sees you in your trunks  _once_ and he never lets it go.”

This kind of friendly repartee is so far removed from the icy jabs delivered by Grandmama earlier today – and that are indeed commonplace from the rest of his family as well - that Charles finds himself compelled to tell them the truth of his situation.

“In all seriousness, _gentlemen_ , I myself find the idea of spending tonight at home rather oppressive. There was a bit of a row earlier and I find myself in search of pleasanter company. Not to cut your evening short-”

Trapper waves his halfhearted objections away with a “You ain't cutting nothing short.” He must not be having much luck finding a date, then. Ah, well. His loss is Charles's gain.

And Hawkeye, too, professes that he is more than happy to have the extra company. So they all collect drinks at the bar and Hawkeye even manages to get them a table in a quieter corner of the pub. It probably helps that he and McIntyre appear to know the gentlemen sitting there quite well judging by all the manly back-slapping and promises to join them next time at whatever bar they're heading to now. Some place far less reputable by the sound of things – they won't even mention the name of the establishment.

Which is just as well. Marjory is already looking a bit uncomfortable around all the working-class individuals packing the bar to the rafters. And even Honoria – who had suggested coming here, as she'd heard so much about the place but had never been – looks less than her usual unruffled self. Charles himself has grown used to the... ambiance of the place. But it is quite different from the stark propriety of the better regarded clubs.

A difference that Charles is positively reveling in at present. He's had rather too much  _gentility_ today.

But Charles acknowledges that it takes some getting used to. He places a comforting arm around Marjory's shoulders, allowing her to lean into his arm rather than sit stiff-backed and tense.

And Hawkeye is quickly working to break the ice, as it were, by engaging Honoria, and Marjory in a conversation about all the latest debacles in wedding planning.

Charles rather thinks he's not supposed to be privy to the ins and outs of his own wedding – the planning and execution thereof is traditionally left to the bride's family, after all – with the exception of a check for a rehearsal dinner or two. But – and this is a secret he will take to his grave – Charles enjoys salacious gossip nearly as much as Hawkeye does. And there certainly is plenty of that surrounding the wedding, what with the clashes of personality between Grandmama and Marjory's mother, or the bevy of bridesmaids all fighting amongst one another for Marjory's favor. The political machinations of the French court before its fall has nothing on the Winchester-Oakes wedding.

Despite the rather complaint-filled conversation, Charles finds himself filled with a warm contentment as he sits there, surrounded by laughter and camaraderie. In an atmosphere so starkly different from the tense, silent halls of the Winchester home. Charles feels himself relax into his seat – and even dares to remove his arm from about Marjory's shoulder so that he may place his hand over hers. A gesture familiar enough that it that would elicit the ire of his relatives only garners a cheeky grin from Hawkeye and a soft smile from Marjory herself.

There's something rather freeing in the anonymity of their chosen watering hole. Here, no one knows him as _him_. Here, he does not need to be Charles Emerson Winchester III – he can simply be a man enjoying an evening with friends.

For that is what they've become over the years, Hawkeye and Trapper – who are currently gently ribbing Honoria about something to do with flower arrangements. They are even, dare he say it, something akin to family at this point. And rather better company than Charles's blood relations – who are more given to cruel mockery than friendly teasing.

Yes, this is certainly a far preferable way to spend an evening than remaining at home would have been. And Charles will certainly have to explain his whereabouts tomorrow, along with Marjory. The family has rather given up on making Honoria explain anything about her behavior at this point, but she will likely be required to make a full report on the propriety of Charles and Marjory's behavior.

And they are behaving rather indecorously, it has to be said. What with displaying affection in a public place and all. But Charles cannot bring himself to mind. Anyone who cares about that sort of thing is far, far away from this particular establishment.

Charles never wants to leave.

But then it's last call and they're being gently chivied out by the tired looking barmaid. And Charles still doesn't want to go home.

Trapper and Hawkeye, bless them, do that sort of silent communication that appears to consist largely of direct eye contact and subtle facial expressions and come to the consensus that Charles, Honoria, and Marjory may stay over at their home for the night. And Trapper even goes so far as to reassure Charles that he will not wake up with a makeover as he'd done the last time he'd slept on their sofa. At this point in the evening, Charles is soused enough he really wouldn't have complained if they had decided on a redux of that little incident.

He sobers up a little in the sharp night air but everything is still feels swimming and unreal. And it's nice to walk along the snowy streets of Boston with Trapper's arm around his shoulders – and to hear Honoria's giggling laugh as Marjory nearly topples Hawkeye into a snowbank. Charles may regret this evening tomorrow morning – he's already anticipating a rather egregious hangover - but right now he can't bring himself to regret anything. It's just too nice.

He really ought to tell them how much he appreciates their friendship.

Charles lets his head fall onto Trapper's shoulder, trying to look him in the eye, but it's not working very well for some reason.

“I'm.. I'm really very glad you two will be at the wedding – you will be at the wedding, won't you? You simply must.. must come. It would be so. So unbearably stuffy otherwise.”

“Yes, Charles, we'll be at the wedding,” Hawkeye says from behind them. And then yelps as Honoria makes another attempt on his life. “A decision I'm regretting more and more as the night goes on.”

But he's just teasing, like friends do to other friends.

And Trapper wraps his arm more firmly around Charles and says, “Yeah, Charles. Maybe we ain't RSVP'ed officially yet-”

“We're brushing up on our calligraphy.”

“-but we'll be there.”

And Trapper sounds very certain. But Charles can't help wondering if they really mean it. He knows he's not the easiest person to get along with, sometimes. He finds it difficult to shed that stuffy persona he's worn for so long. He's been that person so long, it's difficult to be someone else - someone his friends enjoy spending time with. So he's worried, still.

“You promise?”

Trapper turns so that he's facing Charles, looking him in the eye.

“Yes, Charles. We promise.”

Then Trapper tugs Charles's arm higher onto his shoulder and they set off for home.


	4. Eat of This Bread and Drink of This Cup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> BJ figures (some of) his shit out.  
> Featuring food as a metaphor for love. And also love as a metaphor for love.

“All right BJ. What the hell is wrong with you?”

Peg sets the plate of breakfast and mug of coffee on the table with deliberate care. And she's whispering – but that doesn't keep BJ's head from feeling like a freight train's running through it. He hasn't been this hungover in... well, a while, anyway.

All he can do in answer is groan pitifully.

“Not that I'm not _sympathetic_ -” Peg says, with emphasis, though still at a whisper. BJ's head rings. “-but I'm going to need more of an answer than _that_.”

“Please, honey, can we talk about this later.” Like when he's alive.

Peg looks at him sharply, assessing whether her husband's being honest or not. He's weaseled his way out of conversations about this before, after all. But he just looks so pitiful right now.

“All right, dear. But we _are_ talking about this.”

He groans in a way that must sound affirmative because Peg heads towards the living room. The sound of her heels on the linoleum crack like gunshots against the inside of BJ's skull and he lets his head fall into the cradle of his folded arms. He's in big fucking trouble and too hungover to think of a way to sweet talk himself out of it.

But he should at least make sure he's capable of human speech for this discussion. BJ shovels a forkfull of eggs into his mouth and even chewing hurts but he feels better after several cups of coffee and an aspirin. And a shower helps even more – the water hot enough he looks like a boiled lobster afterwards but he's able to look his reflection in the eye as he brushes his teeth.

BJ doesn't particularly like what he sees in the mirror, but at least he can stand to look.

Eventually, BJ can't put off going back downstairs another minute. He's clean and dressed and he's set his office back to rights.

That had been – that had been difficult.

He'd wrecked a few photographs, the frames twisted and splintered, the smiling faces of his family and the 4077 obscured behind spiderwebbing cracks. It makes him feel guilty, but it's fixable. BJ sweeps up the glass and rescues the pictures from the wreckage of the room to be put in new frames.

But there's nothing he can do about the pile of confetti he made out of some of Hawkeye's letters – the ones that mentioned Trapper most often, by the looks of what's missing from the box of envelopes. And that. That really fucks him up. To know that he was angry enough, drunk and out of control enough, to destroy something so precious.

He has few enough connections to Hawkeye - to what they meant to each other - to go around destroying them like that. But there's nothing he can do about it now except gather the pieces and throw them into the trash, paper falling like snow to gently cover the rest of the broken shambles of his office. That done, BJ really has no more excuses not to go downstairs to find Peg. To talk to her.

BJ thinks maybe his office could use another round of tidying up.

Peg is an immovable boulder. BJ won't be able to shift her or persuade her to put this off again or sneak past her. She will sit here as long as it takes for BJ to come to her, to apologize to her for last night, to tell her what, exactly, the _fuck_ is going on with him right now. But that doesn't mean that Peg isn't an impatient boulder.

She crosses her legs, ankle demurely over ankle, and flicks to the next page in her Good Housekeeping. It's a quiz to see if you're a good housewife. They seem to put one in every issue – and always with the same questions. Is your floor clean enough to eat off of – despite the requisite dog and several young children? Do you look like you just spent the day at a spa – instead of spending the day cleaning and cooking and chasing after said dog and children? Do you do anything and everything for your husband – and have no expectations of him ever doing the same for you? Peg recrosses her ankles the other way and flips to the next article. Twenty gelatin dishes your family will Just Adore! – sponsored by Jell-O. Lovely.

She hopes BJ hurries it up a little.

When BJ quits stalling and actually gets up the courage to go downstairs and face Peg, she's sitting in the living room, reading a magazine. It's a normal enough scene – although the lack of children is strange. And then BJ realizes that he hadn't seen them last night either. Peg must have - must have kept them away from him.

All the air goes out of his lungs and BJ collapses next to her on the couch, burying his head in his hands. He wants to weep. The idea that he can't be trusted around his own children - who he loves more than anything in the world, except for Peg - is terrible, horrifying. And he had no idea how long she's been doing this. When BJ thinks back to other nights he's gotten a little too far into the bottle – what he can remember of those nights, anyway – the kids are conspicuously absent there as well. Sent to bed early – without a bedtime story, since BJ is usually the one to do that – or sent off to his parents' house. Carefully kept from having to see him like that. Like that, _like_ _that_ – dead drunk and so angry he starts breaking things is what he means.

BJ tries to tell himself it's not really that bad. That it doesn't happen often – and it's always provoked by something, anyway. Justified. And he would never hurt anyone – would never turn that anger on Peg or the kids, only on objects, things that can be replaced if broken. But that's not really true, either. He'd hit Hawkeye - punched him right in the face for no reason other than BJ'd been angry and Hawkeye had tried to keep him from making a mistake. And they'd never really talked about it afterwards. BJ hadn't really apologized, either – just helped Hawkeye rebuild the still – and permanently erase the last tangible part of Trapper left in Korea. Cuz it always comes back to that with him, doesn't it. Jesus fucking Christ.

Peg has continued to flip through her magazine during BJ's little crisis, but he can tell she's not really paying it much attention. Her eye's keep slipping from the glossy pages and onto BJ's face. Waiting for him to start explaining himself, to give her some sort of context for last night – and all the other nights he's been like this. And BJ still doesn't understand all of what he's feeling, all of what had made him so fucking angry last night – but at least he knows where to begin.

“I'm so sorry, Peggy,” he says into his knees, not able to look her in the eye, afraid of what he'll find there. “I know it doesn't make up for things, but I am so fucking sorry.”

Peg nods to herself. He's right, sorry doesn't fix anything. But BJ has cleaned up the damage he'd done and apologized. It's a step in the right direction – and useless guilt and self recrimination doesn't rope a steer.

She puts a steadying hand on BJ's shoulder. “Apology accepted, dear. But we are talking about whatever caused this little... outburst.” Because sorry or not, they can't keep going on like this.

BJ nods. “I've – this morning was sort of a slap in the face, Peg.” His face twists in anguish. “I don't ever want something like this to happen again – I can't let something like this happen again. So.”

BJ takes a breath, gathers the stray thoughts he's had, tries to bring them together into something that resembles coherency.

“So Trapper John McIntyre. I hate his guts and he was all over Hawkeye's letter. What they did together and what idea Trapper had for this stupid wedding. And Hawkeye talked the whole time about Trapper's kids like they were his or something – and how they were all going up to Maine to visit Hawkeye's dad. It just! Why does Trapper get to have that? Why does he get to live with Hawkeye, spend time with Hawkeye's family, _be_ Hawkeye's family?”

Why does he get all that when BJ doesn't.

“Trapper's a third-rate surgeon and a cheater and a, a rake. Always tom-catting around with his stupid body and his stupid face and his stupid little smirk. Like he's some kind of fucking movie star or something. Some big man on campus. Where's Trapper's research position at a prestigious university if he's so damn good? That's right, he doesn't have one. All he has is some experience in trauma surgery and friends in high places. Hawkeye deserves better.”

“Like you?” Peg's sideways glance seems to ask.

“Yeah, like me,” BJ growls under his breath. And then at a volume Peg can hear, says, “But despite Trapper being average in probably every single way – and he's not half as funny as he thinks he is, either – Hawkeye's shacked up with him like they're fucking newlyweds. It's. They're keeping house together. And Hawkeye just – as soon as Trapper walked through the door, he just stopped talking to me. Started asking after Trapper's day and why he was late getting home – like some perfect little wife. I'm surprised he didn't run and get him his fucking slippers.”

“So you think Trapper's taking advantage of him – of his feelings for him? Is that what's bothering you about all this?” Peg asks.

Because Trapper sounds like a real heel, from BJ's telling. But she's not sure how much of that is reality and how much of it is BJ twisting and misinterpreting things due to his own dislike of the man. And she knows that BJ's feelings towards him are only part of this – that there's more to BJ's anger than just Trapper being a jerk and Hawkeye writing about him.

BJ sighs. “No, I don't think that.” And in all honesty, he doesn't really believe that Trapper's half so bad – either as a surgeon or as a friend. It's just. “Trapper was doing just as much of the domestic routine as Hawkeye was. He made us dinner, if you can believe that – a roast like you do for Sunday dinner. Or for company that you want to impress.”

And shit. BJ can see – without the haze of alcohol and anger and whatever the hell he'd been feeling when he saw Trapper and Hawkeye together like they'd been – that Trapper had been trying. Probably out of consideration for Hawkeye, but still. He'd tried. Asked BJ about his work, showed interest in BJ's achievements, made polite conversation with him when Hawkeye was all talked out.

Or too busy eating the food Trapper had made.

All the time BJ had known Hawkeye, he'd barely eaten anything at all. Even with their strange little dinner routine of Hawkeye smelling his food and then giving it to BJ, who'd then put it right back on Hawkeye's plate, most of it went untouched. And sure, Army food was terrible – worse than anything BJ'd ever tried to cook in his shitty apartment kitchen back in college. But it was edible, if you were hungry enough. And the thing about thirty plus hours at a stretch in the OR is that you get pretty hungry.

So BJ had figured that Hawkeye just didn't eat much. He was skinny enough for that to be believable. But there he'd been, eating seconds at dinner and stealing cake off Trapper's plate during dessert. Something Trapper reacted to with fond annoyance - like it was normal, like he'd always done it. And BJ had started to wonder if this is what Hawkeye had been like before, when Trapper'd been in Korea.

Back before BJ had showed up.

And that's not even getting into the way the two of them had been during breakfast. Dancing around one another in the kitchen. Like they were so familiar with one another that they didn't need words to navigate the space between their bodies. And they'd fed each other then too. Hawkeye pressing grapes into Trapper's waiting mouth. Trapper fixing Hawkeye coffee like he knew the way he took it by heart. It had been so intimate – more intimate than almost anything BJ can think of doing with anyone he wasn't married to.

“No, Trapper's in on the whole newlyweds thing, too. And the worst of it is is that Hawkeye's happy like that.” BJ pulls at his hair in frustration. “That sounds terrible. I. What I mean is, I just thought that we needed each other, back in Korea. That Hawkeye needed me just as much as I needed him. And I needed him so much, Peg – I clung to him. And I thought he was clinging to me, too. But it turns out that what he needs is fucking Trapper.” Or Trapper fucking him, a snide voice inside BJ's head pipes up. “And now I don't know where we stand with one another. If Hawkeye really liked me at all, or if I was just. Convenient. A replacement for the person he really wanted there.”

“I know that you, that you need to feel needed in a relationship, BJ,” Peg says gently.

She's starting to see a connection here, with the way BJ's talking about things, to how he'd been when he felt she didn't need him anymore. A connection that she's pretty sure he hasn't figured out yet. He always was a little obtuse.

“And dear, I think Hawkeye being happy probably has more to do with not being in Korea than anything else. He wasn't very happy in Korea with Trapper either, after all. And he might not need you quite the same way he did back then, but he reached out to _you_ , BJ. He kept your friendship alive after the war, and I think that counts for something.”

BJ looks a lot less miserable at that. “You're right, Peg. Our friendship is too important to let something like being on opposite sides of the country get in the way of it. Or us having our own lives.” Even if Hawkeye's life inexplicably involved Trapper. “I guess I should take him up on the offer to stay over a few extra days, then.”

Peg takes his hand. “You don't need to make any kind of decision about anything right away. Maybe take a few days to figure out where you stand with things. It's been – it's been an emotional day.”

BJ isn't quite sure why she's counseling him to wait on writing back to Hawkeye, but he trusts her judgment, so he nods in agreement and squeezes her hand tightly. He's really really lucky to have someone like Peg in his life.

* * *

About a week later, the penny finally drops. BJ bolts upright in bed, going from just about to nod off to terribly, utterly awake.

“Oh my God,” BJ whispers in something that sounds a lot like horror. “Oh my God, I think I'm in love with him.”

There's no real mystery as to who he's talking about. Not with the way BJ sits there, practically stewing in – Peg doesn't know. Guilt maybe. Or shame. Like he's done something wrong, cheated on her somehow, by feeling things he didn't even realize he was feeling until just now.

Peg isn't particularly surprised, is the thing.

She'd spent the week thinking about all of this. This thing between Hawkeye and her husband. And Peg feels like this realization hasn't just been brewing since BJ got back. No, this all started well before then.

Peg feels like she ought to have known, ever since she'd gotten that first letter from BJ talking about how good a surgeon and how compassionate and how bright and fun and funny Hawkeye was. It was practically a love letter to Hawkeye Pierce. It was just neither of them had seen it til now.

Then there were all the other letters, talking about Hawkeye nearly constantly. Both in the funny stories and the more serious passages about how terrible the war was - about how much BJ loved and missed Peg and Erin and couldn't wait to be back home – and how Hawkeye had done something to cheer him up in the meantime. He'd inhabited every stroke of BJ's pen. He'd become a constant companion to Peg during BJ's time in Korea.

She'd come to care for him a great deal, despite having never met him. She'd been glad that BJ had someone there for him – and that he could be there for. Because that thing of BJ's about needing to be needed, Hawkeye had brought that out of him in spades.

So many of the letters had had themes of: Hawkeye's feeling down, here's how I cheered him up. Frankly, it should have been obvious just from that. BJ's love for Hawkeye goes well beyond simply friendship.

And Peg thinks the feeling is mutual. After all, she had gotten that letter from Hawkeye saying that BJ was real cut up he was missing his anniversary and could she maybe send him something to cheer him up. Except that it wasn't just a letter or maybe a photograph or another smutty novel Hawkeye was asking for Peg to send. It was _her_ he was asking her for – all the things she'd do with BJ on a normal anniversary with them both home in Mill Valley recorded and mailed to Korea.

Hawkeye had needled and prodded and tricked information out of BJ until he could recreate an entire day of his life. And not just any day – their wedding anniversary. And since Peg couldn't be there to celebrate with BJ, Hawkeye had done it for her. For BJ. If that doesn't spell love, she doesn't know what does.

It should bother her, the idea that another man loves her husband – and that her husband loves him back. And that Hawkeye knows parts of BJ that she can never know.

And it does, a little. The idea that Peg hadn't been able to be there for BJ in all of the ways he'd needed. That he'd had to find someone else a little closer to home to take care of him – and to be taken care of by him – in Korea. That BJ still harbors these feelings for Hawkeye even now that he's back home with her and the kids.

But BJ isn't about to leave her - not with the way he's clinging to her hand and looking at her like she's his only chance at deliverance. And all of Hawkeye's love for BJ had been expressed in gestures like that anniversary movie – things that brought them closer together, things that let BJ come home to her mostly whole.

Even if they end up talking about this, BJ and Hawkeye, it's not going to go change things between them. There's no guarantee that anything will come of it other than emotional honesty. After all, BJ seems quite certain that Hawkeye is in a committed relationship – for whatever value of committed he and Trapper are both capable of. Trapper hadn't been the only one with rather legendary prowess with the nurses, after all.

So the only question she has is, “What do you want to do about this, dear?”

What BJ wants to do is run and hide, to curl up in the safety of Peg's arms and never think about this again. What BJ wants to do is go find Hawkeye and bring him to Mill Valley and keep him here forever. But neither of those are exactly options, so he says, “I guess I want to talk to him. About all this.” He gestures vaguely at the space between them, the bedroom at large, maybe even all of Mill Valley. There's just so much – and BJ doesn't know what any of it means yet.

“Well then, I guess we'd better plan on staying in Boston a few extra days. Why don't you let Hawkeye know.”

* * *

Trapper gets woken up by the phone ringing in the middle of the night on a week when he's not supposed to be working nights. But sometimes, there's an emergency bad enough everyone gets called up, scheduling be damned. So he holds back on the stream of profanity he wants to let loose and picks up the receiver.

“This is John McIntyre.”

“Hi, Trapper.” And it's Aisling from down the way, not one of the emergency services operators, so that means he doesn't need to start getting dressed at least. “I got a BJ Hunnicutt calling for Hawkeye. All the way from California, if you can believe it.”

“Yeah, yeah, they're old war buddies. I'll go get Hawkeye. Tell BJ to learn how time zones work while he waits.”

Of course, Hawkeye's wide awake now and looking questioningly at Trapper, trying to figure out what's so important that he's getting a phone call from BJ at two in the morning. And Trapper could just pass over the phone, BJ probably wouldn't say anything about it – and Aisling, who's voice Hawkeye can hear clear from across the room, definitely wouldn't. But Trapper's apparently feeling a little huffy about being woken up for a non-emergency type situation – at least, Hawkeye hopes it's not an emergency type situation. Not much Hawkeye can do from Boston if it is. So that just means something terrible like death or. No, everything is fine. BJ just doesn't know what time it is in Boston. Or he's drunk and. No, that's not really better.

Hawkeye makes impatient grabby hands at the phone.

“Hey, BJ. What's going on? Is something wrong?”

Hawkeye sounds muddled and half-asleep through the phone and suddenly, this seems like a bad idea. Like BJ's jumped the gun. What time is it in Boston, anyway?

“Hey, Hawk. Nothing's wrong.”

BJ hopes not, at any rate. He'll have to wait to see Hawkeye in person to know for sure. That definitely isn't the kind of conversation you have over the phone when the operator – or Trapper – could be listening in.

“Look, I'm sorry to call so late. I just wanted to say that I'm planning to come to Boston for the wedding and that Peg and I would love to stay for a few extra days. And that I'm sorry I've been kind of a jerk.”

Hawkeye's smile can be heard through the phone. “BJ, that's great news! I can't wait to see you both. Though maybe we could talk about this some time other than the middle of the night?”

Oops. Peg's listening in on the call and BJ can feel her silent laughter breathing against the back of his neck.

“Yeah. Yeah, I'll write you a letter tomorrow. Sorry to call so late – I just wanted to make sure you knew.”

“It's ok, BJ. But if that's everything, I'm going back to sleep. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Hawk,” BJ barely breathes into the receiver.

All of the air has gone out of his lungs, but out of relief this time, not fear. It feels like a huge weight has been lifted from his shoulders, getting to hear Hawkeye's voice – even if only for a minute. Knowing that he's real and _there_ , even all the way across the country, and that BJ will have a chance to talk – really talk – to him soon. It's a bigger relief than he could have imagined.

“You're a real smart lady, Mrs. Hunnicutt,” BJ says into Peg's bare shoulder.

She kisses his forehead. “Goodness knows, one of us has to be. Now you'd better get some sleep too. You can write Hawkeye and Charles in the morning.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is 4077 words long and I thought that was a fun fact to share.


	5. It's All Coming Together

A few weeks after she and Margaret get roped into Hawkeye and Trapper's little scheme, Kat comes home to a flurry of pink tulle blanketing the living room. In the center of the hurricane is Maggie – wielding a pair of scissors with gleeful abandon.

“Margaret, honey, what are you doing?”

Margaret looks up from her shears with a dangerous smile. “Exacting revenge.”

“Oh yeah?” Kat says in her best mobster voice. “Do I gotta send someone to sleep with the fishes?” And then in her normal voice. “I know some good piers to push people off of, Maggie, don't you worry. Whoever made that dress will never sew again, I promise.”

“No shoving people off of piers.” Margaret mock scolds. “It's pointless anyway, I bought it at a department store – and you can't shove the entire women's department of Kresge's off a pier.”

Kat's expression says _just watch me_ , but what she actually says is, “Ok, no taking things out on the innocent shop clerks. Who do you really want to suffer?”

Margaret's response is immediate and full of invective. “Private Scully.”

Kat looks at her questioningly.

“You know,” Margaret insists, “that sonofabitch I dated after Ponobscott. Though I haven't exactly kept track of him - he may still be in Asia for all I know – so finding him to push off a pier may be difficult.”

Kat looks ready to attempt it regardless. Margaret really does love how far she's willing to go to take care of and protect her – even if these threats are mostly empty.

“Anyway the last time I wore this dress, it was for that dud of a soldier – and when I found it, I got so mad at him all over again. The inconsiderate fink.”

Part of it may have been that Margaret had found the dress completely accidentally. She'd actually been looking for a winter coat that had gotten shoved into the spare bedroom closet – a sort of overflow for her and Kat's closet that mostly houses out-of-season clothes and boxes of the kind of stuff you need to keep but don't want to trip over everyday. And in one of those boxes was the dress.

Just opening it and seeing that shade of pink had brought back that whole sorry episode. Suddenly, she was back in Korea – back with Scully and all the feelings of inadequacy and loneliness and longing he'd evoked.

Margaret isn't generally one for sentimentality – or at least that's what she tells herself. Growing up as an army brat didn't really allow for attachments to places, possessions, or people. And her father hadn't approved of womanly histrionics.

But the memories associated with it aren't exactly rose tinted. And Margaret is certainly one for holding a grudge. So when she'd found that dress. Well. There was really only one way to react.

“I just – I was spitting mad. Do you know what he wanted me to do? Do you, Kat? He wanted me to keep house with him if you can believe it – in the middle of an army camp I was in charge of running the nursing staff for!” Margaret puffs up in indignation. “He may have been on leave, but I certainly wasn't!”

“Uh huh,” Kat nods, “he sounds like a real charmer. So where does the dress come in? He want you to put it on and play wife?”

Margaret growls in frustration. “And then some. He said he couldn't see me as a real woman in army drag, wouldn't make time for me if I didn't put in the effort to look human – look womanly and sweet and welcoming. And stupid me! I wanted him – wanted someone - enough that I did it. This dress was the only civilian outfit I owned and he wanted to see me in it – wouldn't take no for an answer - no matter that I was too busy to play dress up or cook his food or do any of the other little domestic tasks he asked of me. So I put it on for him.”

“What a delightful man,” Kat says, sarcasm sharp enough to cut. “Kind, considerate of your feelings, attentive – what more could one ask for in a lover? Why, I'm surprised the two of you aren't still together.”

“He was a real loser,” Margaret agrees. “Which is why I'm taking my revenge!”

Margaret brandishes the scissors to emphasize her point and Kat backs away surreptitiously.

Maggie's always been an expressive person when she feels she's allowed. And it's nice that she's unwound enough around Kat to show that side of herself again instead of just buttoning everything up behind that inspection-ready front she'd worn since joining the army. Not letting anything show through the cracks until she got pushed far enough that the facade crumbled and she collapsed.

But despite her excitement, Maggie seems to remember that waving sharp objects around her face isn't the best idea. Which Kat is grateful for. Because despite them both being nurses and able to deal with various minor injuries and ailments, Kat really doesn't fancy having to sew up stab wounds this afternoon. It's the sort of thing that kills the mood.

At any rate, Maggie goes back to her dress demolition with a little less wild abandon than before. And Kat joins her, sitting cross-legged on the floor like a kid with piles of tulle piling in snowdrifts around her. There are certainly worse ways of spending an evening, after all.

After some almost meditative destruction, Margaret says, “I do feel sort of bad cutting it up.” After all, Max worked so hard to make it look nice and fit her better. Lost cause though it had been.

Kat peers closely at the fabric. “It _is_ a nice shade of revenge.”

“Just not my style, I suppose. But maybe it'll be Charles and Marjory's.”

* * *

A few months or so after he gets invited to Charles's wedding, Steve heads down to Boston for a poker game. The last few had been called on account of snow, so he's looking forward to seeing Hawkeye and Trapper – and yes, even Charles – for the first time in a while.

The game's as good a time as ever, plenty of banter and good-natured ribbing. But Steve sort of feels like somethings different. And maybe it's just that he hasn't seen the others in a while – that he'd forgotten the rhythm of their jokes and repartee. But it also seems like maybe things are a little changed somehow. Like Charles is a little warmer, more friendly.

He'd never exactly struck Steve as the warm and cuddly type – especially to folks he'd thought he was better than. Which is most everybody, seems like. Hell, Charles hadn't started warming up to Steve til he found out he'd gone to Johns Hopkins – the snob.

That's not to say he's not a good friend, in his own way. Once you've befriended him, Charles will give you the silk shirt off his back - complaining heartily the whole time. So Steve guesses that what he's trying to say is that Charles's own way tends to be a little... stand-offish. And this is coming from the son of emotionally constipated Midwesterners.

But tonight, Charles is positively outgoing. Slapping Steve heartily on the back in greeting. Laughing and joking around in a way that's more lighthearted than snide. And then there's the fact that he won't shut up about his upcoming wedding – even though it's still months away.

It's sort of strange to think of Charles Winchester settling down. But he positively gushes about Marjory. About how beautiful and brilliant and wonderful she is. About how he can't believe he's lucky enough to get to marry her – to spend the rest of his life with her. Because he's not going to be the love 'em and leave 'em type, not with Marjory.

It makes Steve feel a little guilty.

He goes a little quiet, maybe. But Charles's unexpected jubilance ought to cover that over, right? Unfortunately, Steve isn't being quite subtle enough and Hawkeye and Trapper must pick up on it. Or at least Steve thinks they do.

They keep giving each other loaded glances over Charles's head – and not the kind of loaded glances they usually give each other. Or at least Steve hopes not since he's staying over at their house tonight on account of the late train not running in winter much and he'd rather not have to deal with his hosts screwing in the next room over. Not that they ever would, but if things are heading that way. Well. For politeness's sake, Steve would have to accept Charles's offer to put him up - despite it meaning that Steve would then have to spend even more time with him.

One evening is difficult enough. Particularly an evening like this which seems almost designed to make Steve feel guilty.

Fortunately, all Hawkeye and Trapper's looks seem to indicate is that they want to get home. So Steve follows them back to the house – and it's early enough still that he's not surprised when they herd him into the living room to sit and shoot the shit for a while. He is kinda surprised when Hawkeye slings his legs over Steve's lap and Trapper throws a companionable arm over his shoulders, effectively trapping him there with them.

“All right Steve, what's eating you?” Trapper asks.

And it would have been too much to hope that they weren't going to bring it up.

At least Trapper's question is born out of genuine concern. He pulls Steve closer to him and says, “You've been looking real morose all evening – and it ain't like you lost your life savings, cuz we don't play for cash without Margaret. So something's gotta be bugging you.”

“Something Charles Winchester related,” Hawkeye adds. “You kept looking at him out of the corner of your eye – and I doubt it's because you suddenly developed a schoolboy crush on him.”

The last is delivered teasingly and Steve laughs. “No, I'm more than happy with Millie. And Charles really isn't my type.”

“Too snotty,” Hawkeye says with a nod. “I completely understand.”

“It wedding related then?” Trapper asks. “Cuz there ain't that many reasons to be looking sideways at Charles.”

“Yeah, it's wedding related.” Steve sighs. “I guess I'm feeling kind of guilty about my part of the gift.”

“Yeah?” Trapper's giving Steve his full attention – and he wilts into Trapper's shoulder a little.

“Yeah.” Steve takes a breath. “Look, what are you guys doing for your quilt squares?”

“I'm sewing a Claddagh – you know, the hand and heart thing-” Trapper makes an approximation with his hands “-onto an old fatigue shirt.”

“Finally a good use for army issue duds,” Hawkeye interjects.

Trapper jerks a thumb at him. “And he's making some real pretty shit – go on and show him, Hawk.”

Hawkeye pulls out a piece of shimmery gray fabric with a wavy pattern of tiny copper leaves embroidered over most of it. It's absolutely beautiful. The kind of thing you treasure for years and pass down as an heirloom. Fuck.

“See, that's my problem. Everyone's doing these heartfelt traditional things – even you guys. And I was sure you were gonna take the opportunity to get one over on Charles. But you didn't, you did something sweet and meaningful and I'm. I'm just doing a joke.”

“You do know Sidney's doing a cross stitch that says “pull down your pants and slide on the ice” with little pink flowers around it, right?” Hawkeye asks.

That startles a laugh out of Steve. “Is he really?”

Steve turns to Trapper for confirmation and he nods. Sidney had called just last week and asked him and Hawkeye for advice on the appropriate level of twee-ness.

Hawkeye shakes his head fondly. “A fountain of profound wisdom, that man.”

“And he'd prolly tell you that Charles likes you for who you are – so you may as well embrace that. Make something personal, you know? It ain't like he's gonna be showing this off to all his snob friends, anyway. This is for us.”

Steve nods at that.

“Plus,” Hawkeye adds, “you're nuts if you think anything Margaret makes is gonna be tasteful.”

“Or Max.”

“Or BJ. I know for a fact that he's doing a really terrible pun on his.”

Steve smiles. “Thanks guys. I feel a lot better knowing how crass and terrible everyone else is being.”

Trapper slaps him heartily on the back. “That's us, crass and terrible.”

“He's crass, I'm terrible.”

“Where does that leave me then?”

“You can be thoughtless.”

“Gauche?” Trapper suggests.

“What about tasteless?”

“Wow, thanks fellas. You're really making me feel better about myself.” But Steve's got a smile on his face and Trapper figures he and Hawkeye have done their job. After a little longer chatting and joking around, they all sort of disentangle and go get ready for bed.

“BJ's doing a shitty pun, huh,” Trapper says as he and Hawkeye brush their teeth.

“That's what he said. Though he refuses to tell me what it is.” Hawkeye pouts around his toothbrush. “Tight lipped sonofabitch says I have to wait to see it in person. It better be one hell of a pun, that's all I can say.”

* * *

“Shit.”

“You stick yourself again, dear?”

BJ can hear the smothered laughter in Peg's voice even with her all the way in the kitchen.

“All I can say is, Charles had better appreciate the hell out of this present. I think I've given more blood for this thing than I did at the Red Cross blood drive.”

“Well, everyone knows it's the thought that counts. But I think it's coming along very nicely.” Even if Peg hadn't necessarily agreed with BJ's decision to make a pun rather than something more meaningful. But then again, she's not the one this is for – and she doesn't know Dr. Winchester's sense of humor or taste in presents. Doesn't know him at all except through BJ's stories about the man - and Hawkeye's letters about the wedding.

Of course, Max is the one actually coordinating things. But those letters tend to be focused on answering BJ's technical questions – and badgering him into having the quilt square done on time.

Hawkeye, on the other hand, is a wellspring of gossip. Who's making what, funny stories about wedding planning passed on from Marjory or Honoria, and Hawkeye's own opinions on the courting behavior of the upper-crust all feature in the nearly weekly reports from Boston. Along with descriptions of Hawkeye's day-to-day life.

This is something Peg has learned to be wary of, over the months since BJ came home. When Hawkeye starts being too candid – when he strays away from idle gossip and responding to BJ's own letters and starts talking about his life – his life with Trapper – that's when things get. Difficult.

And now there's the added wrinkle of BJ's feelings for Hawkeye. Feelings that may or may not be reciprocated. Feelings that Peg honestly isn't all that sure she knows how she feels about. Feelings that ought to make any mention of Trapper John McIntyre even more upsetting to BJ.

But it feels like the opposite has happened, in a way. With BJ able to put a name to what he's feeling – able to find a reason for his jealousy – he's lost a lot of that desperate, wild anger.

That's not to say that there haven't been some rough days. Days when BJ looks longingly at the liquor cabinet – emptied of bottom shelf gin since that last horrible night but still holding enough wine and scotch and whatever else to drown any kind of sorrow for a time. Or stoke any kind of anger. But on days like that, BJ has taken to going out with fellows from his motorcycle club - riding far too fast through the twisting mountain roads, until he can leave all his anger behind in the wind. And that brings its own sort of worry. But when he returns, his face raw with windburn and his eyes free of ghosts, Peg can't bring herself to tell him to stop.

And then there are the days when Peg finds BJ staring at old photographs from Korea like they hold the secrets of the universe rather than just images of himself and Hawkeye. Peg feels like maybe she ought to feel- she doesn't know, slighted somehow? Worried that her husband is so obviously in love with someone else, someone he'd known so intimately for so long? Because this isn't just a little fleeting crush, that much is obvious. BJ loves Hawkeye deeply. And with a love like that, well. What's left over for her?

But BJ isn't like that. He isn't going to leave her and the children. And as jealous and petty and silly about little things like emotional honesty as he can be, Peg knows there's enough love in her husband's heart for a hundred people, a thousand.

If it helps BJ, Peg can live with the shadow of Hawkeye Pierce in her house, in her bedroom, even – tucked under the covers between them, a breath passed between their lips when they kiss. He feels so real, from all of BJ's stories. Like he's always lived there. So it's not jealousy she feels. And, to be perfectly honest, Peg is rather looking forward to meeting the famous Hawkeye in person. To seeing if he's anything at all like the person she's built up in her mind.

So she had encouraged BJ to reach out to Hawkeye, to tell him some of what he's feeling – both to prepare him for the difficult conversation they're sure to have and to help BJ figure out what it is he actually wants to say when he has the opportunity. Because BJ is a good man and a wonderful husband, but he's really not very astute sometimes. And Peg wants this to work out – for all of their sake's.

BJ feels the same way, he says. And it's obvious that he's really honestly trying to figure things out, both with her and with Hawkeye.

And Peg thinks he's sort of latched onto the quilt project as a way of feeling connected to Hawkeye – and to a lesser extent, the other members of the 4077. It must be difficult for BJ, being the only one on the West coast. There's practically a little enclave in Boston – and Hawkeye makes it sound like there are regular meet ups with the rest of the folks living on the East coast. But BJ doesn't have anyone to meet up with, not who experienced the same things he did – who has that same understanding of the blood and the horror and the loss.

Peg can listen, of course. And BJ's started talking more about his time in Korea – something he'd initially shied away from, not that she can blame him. The stories he's telling now are full of more horrors than she could ever imagine. And that's the point – she can listen, but she can't _understand_. The only people who can really understand are the ones he went through those horrors with him.

So she's glad he's been able to keep his connection to Hawkeye – and she's looking forward to meeting him and the rest of BJ's friends from Korea in a few months.

* * *

A couple months before the wedding, Max starts getting quilt squares from all the 4077 folks. Plus Letta – and she's an honorary member of the MASH in Max's mind due to her tricking Dr. Winchester out of tons of money and then giving it all to a good cause. Anyone who can do that is worth bringing into the family, as it were.

And now that all the quilt pieces have arrived, its Max's job put them together.

She commandeers the dining room table – the largest flat surface in the apartment – earning a fond eye roll from Soon Li and excited curiosity from Seong. Max plops him in a chair on a towering stack of books so he can watch as she lays out the squares, moving them around to form something resembling a quilt. She'll sew everything up at the tailoring shop, but it'll help to get a good idea of what all she's working with before putting needle to cloth.

Fortunately, there's a sort of balance to the chaotic swirl of color and texture.

Margaret's pink monstrosity – which features golden swan appliques, the heads bent to form a heart shape with the necks – and Max's own gaudy Bedouin patchwork can sandwich the Padre's more sedate square – cream linen with black text and gold and silver embellishments. That all ties together nicely for the top row of the quilt. Max makes a note of their placement on her latest sketch.

Then Colonel Potter's log cabin square and Radar's prairie points obviously go with BJ's square. A nice little depiction of the 4077 signpost with the words “be it ever so rumble, there's no place like home.” Max laughs to herself as she notes that Radar's square forms a little hidden panel behind the inward pointing triangles – with a picture of two interlocking wedding rings quilted onto it – so she'll have to avoid sewing that over when she quilts the square. And that's the left side done.

Hawkeye and Trapper's squares stay together, obviously, to make up most of the bottom of the quilt. Steve's contribution – an anatomically correct heart with “home is where the heart is” emblazoned on it – goes between the two more sedate squares. And ain't that a kicker – Hawkeye making something beautiful and elegant instead of zany. Not that he doesn't have a touch of the romantic in him. But Max'd expected something more in line with Trapper's contribution. Meaningful but with a little bit of a sly dig in there. Hell, even the Father's choice of bible verse – all about humility and patience and love – could be read as a little something designed to take the wind out of Dr. Winchester's sails.

And Max isn't surprised at all by Sidney's contribution. And it's as good advice now as it was back in Korea. So she makes it the center of the final side of the quilt, bracketed by Letta's star pattern and Donna's interlocking wedding rings.

All that's left now is to fill in the gaps.

In addition to her own square, Max also made corner pieces with scraps of fabric left over from her other tailoring projects. And there's a center piece – with Dr. and Mrs. Winchester's names and the date of their wedding on it – made from some white satin taken from Max's own wedding dress. Soon Li didn't have any kind of emotional attachment to it and Max figures she's done getting hitched. And any kids they have that want to get married in a dress can get a brand new one courtesy of Max Klinger - professional tailor.

So with all the individual pieces done, all that's left is to sew everything together, slap a back on it, and quilt it so the stuffing don't fall out. Easy.

Well, not quite. She's got a few long nights ahead of her, trimming the pieces so they fit right together and join up square, then actually sewing everything together, then sewing batting and the back piece on with edge strips that have to be turned under and hemmed so no raw edges show, then quilting the whole thing in a pattern that both holds everything in place and also looks nice. It's a lot of work for sure – but she figures it'll be worth it to see the look on Dr. Winchester's face when he opens their present, sees what they've come together to make for him.


	6. Wedding Blues

Marjory is getting married and all she can think is, thank Christ it's almost over.

Which is not a reflection on Charles – not at all. Indeed, this will probably rank as the happiest day of her life simply because it is him she is marrying. But that does not make the wedding any easier to tolerate.

First, there was the endless primping and preening and catty little digs as she and her bridesmaids got ready. Practically an entire platoon of servants were there to help – but there was still the requisite insanity of losing precious family heirloom jewelry, and then the rebuttal that it can't have been _that_ valuable as the family in question only came into their money in the eighteen nineties. And then there was the requisite huff at such a terrible slight. And then the necklace gets found in the girls purse. And then there was the sickly fake apology – complete with cheek kisses delivered carefully off the skin so as not to smudge any makeup.

Meanwhile all the servants are desperately attempting to straighten and settle the dresses and do all their hair and makeup. And it's never right, anyway. So then there is a chorus of “How could you think of doing an up-do like that? It's going to make my neck look squat!” “Your neck always looks squat.” And then it starts all over again.

All in all, it's less than the perfect, blissful experience Marjory had been told to expect. But at least Honoria is forced to suffer through it with her – and Marjory will have someone to commiserate over the experience with after the ceremony is finally over.

Because that's the other intolerable thing – the wedding itself.

It is flawless, of course – everything going off without a hitch. As it should given the endless hours Marjory has spent devising the perfect guest list, the perfect floral arrangements, the perfect everything.

But that does not make it any less a gaudy political showpiece rather than an expression of genuine sentiment – put on more to impress upon their guests the wealth and power and gentility of the Oakes and Winchester families than out of Marjory's personal sense of taste in weddings.

Because if it was up to her, the wedding would consist of herself, Charles, Honoria standing as witness, and a justice of the peace to officiate. And then they'd gather the rest of Charles's friends – and Marjory's own, her real ones, not these fawning sycophants – and sit around the living room in pajamas drinking champagne and laughing and eating stupid little canapes – most of which would end up being thrown at one another in mock battle - and then she and Charles would go to bed early, and she would spend the night in his arms. But that does not a wedding of the century make. And of course that is what is important today – making an impression on Boston high society.

And Marjory understands why that is important, really she does. She has been raised just as Charles has with duty to family coming before any sort of personal feelings or wants or desires. And she is unbelievably lucky that the prudent political match her parents pushed her towards is a man she actually loves – a man she desires, and who loves and desires her, if the rather passionate kiss they'd shared at the culmination of their vows is any indication.

But it does not make it any easier to suffer through all of the faux sobbing from relatives and “friends” who are in attendance simply because Marjory could not snub second-cousin such-and-such by neglecting to invite them. And this being the social event of the season, said invitees could not refuse such an invitation without suffering dire social consequences. But it all means that Marjory's wedding is populated by individuals who are more interested in critiquing their rivals' clothes and jewelry and cars than actually paying attention to the proceedings.

Marjory rather wishes that she had been allowed to invite Charles's friends to the ceremony and not just the reception. They no doubt would have livened things up a little. And then at least someone other than herself, Charles, and Honoria would actually care about the union taking place.

But given the actual contents of the ceremony, perhaps it's better that they are not in attendance. Because that is the third intolerable part – the ceremony.

As Charles is nominally Episcopalian, the event is being held in the heavy, overbearing Trinity church in Back Bay. And the pastor has ensured that the homily is equally overbearing. Thus far, there have been no less than three references to her, Marjory, serving Charles in marriage as the Church serves her husband Jesus Christ. Because God forbid a man ever value his wife as an equal and a partner. And honestly, given how poorly the Church has traditionally upheld the values of peace, love, and social reform preached by Christ, Marjory is a little surprised at the continued use of this metaphor – but perhaps this particular Pastor has neither a degree in history nor in divinity.

Fortunately, they are all currently engaged in singing a hymn, so the pastor cannot speak more tired platitudes for several minutes. And then it will be time for the sacrament – and hopefully he can manage at least that much without incident – and then with the bread broken and the cup drunk the ceremony is over and they are free. Free for several glorious minutes as they are chauffeured from the church to the hotel for the reception, where they must don the mask of snobbish gentility once again.

Charles looks quite relieved at the ordeal drawing to a close as well – though given that he's had two bachelor parties in as many nights, she cannot exactly blame him. Hopefully he'll manage to stay awake through the reception and what comes after. If not, well, they have an entire week in a New York penthouse hotel room with no obligations and no one around to bother them. Marjory cannot wait.

* * *

Charles shifts slightly from foot to foot. He's been standing for rather a long time, now, and his his head has felt better. Though the old Harvard chums who had thrown last night's little bachelor's party look much worse for wear than he feels – and there's a sense of schadenfreude in that. They'd taken him out to some gauche topless bar to – quote – _slum it_ for an evening when all Charles really wanted to do was go to bed early in anticipation of wedding his fiancee the next day.

But of course, what red-blooded man wouldn't want to look at another women's bosom on the eve of his nuptials? After all, it's his last chance to play the field, as it were.

And Charles can certainly appreciate the myriad delights of the fairer sex. It's just that he has no real desire to play the field. Marjory is a wonderful woman, intelligent and elegant and everything he could hope for in a wife – and quite lovely as well. Indeed, Charles had nearly swooned upon seeing her sweep gracefully down the aisle. She had looked regal and nearly ethereal – and Charles still cannot believe that she had agreed to marry him, despite the wedding rings that sit on their respective fingers, binding them to one another for as long as they both shall live.

With such a Goddess waiting for him at the altar, why on earth, then, would Charles ever want to do something with the potential to damage their relationship? Why would he wish to stray from such domestic bliss? Why, in short, would he want to spend his evening ogling other women when he could be at home, in bed dreaming of this moment?

So Charles had spent his bachelor party in the quietest back corner he could find, drinking scotch, while is companions drooled and leered and otherwise made absolute beasts of themselves. It was unbecoming, is what it was. And Charles hopes he shall never have to participate in such a spectacle again. If any of his former Harvard classmates get married in the future, he shall endeavor to be out of the country on the date of the bachelor party, that is certain.

Surprisingly, the party Trapper and Hawkeye threw for him was much more sedate. It was largely an extended version of their normal bi-weekly poker game – including Steve and his girlfriend Millicent and Sidney and Margaret and Kat, all in Boston for the wedding a few days early - but otherwise proceeding as usual. And perhaps bachelor parties generally include such things as drinking too much champagne and ogling scantily clad women – and exclude such things as women who would quite thoroughly kick Charles's ass if he were foolish enough to attempt to ogle them – but he cannot find it within himself to mind.

Perhaps it's a bit of a surprise that the inveterate womanizer Hawkeye Pierce had thrown a bachelor party as _clothed_ as his had been. But it appears that everyone must grow up sometime, even Hawkeye. And as he had said when Charles asked him about the non-traditional itinerary, it was the sort of celebration much less likely to result in Marjory murdering all of them after the wedding, which is another boon.

Indeed, the entire evening was most enjoyable in its ordinariness and Charles half wishes that he could have gone home with the rest of the guests to sleep on Hawkeye and Trapper's sofa, despite the crick it would most certainly have put in his neck, just to keep that feeling of camaraderie alive for a few more hours.

But their house is already packed to the rafters – with Sidney forced to bunk with Trapper and Hawkeye if the jokes about getting Margaret and Kat to join them and so break their record for number of people crammed into one sleeping bag “by at least one nurse” is to be believed. And, quite frankly, Charles has no interest in helping them break that particular record. So instead he had left them all in one big chatting, laughing, cheerful group and returned home to Back Bay and his own large, empty bed. And then to the large, empty bachelor party thrown for him the next night. Forced to wait until the reception this evening – should the interminable ceremony ever fucking end – to see all of them again.

Because he does wish to spend another evening with them – even so soon after the last. And that had been something of a surprise when he'd first gotten home from Korea - just how eager he was to reconnect with the people he'd spent the better part of a year swearing he would never see again. That as soon as he'd heard Hawkeye was back in the country – and more fortuitously, back in Boston, because Charles refuses to venture to the wilds of northern Maine for love or money – he'd endeavored to meet up with him. And that he'd left that first meeting eager to do it again.

But there is something freeing in the spending of an evening with the flotsam and jetsam of the Korean war. They all understand one another on a level that Charles has experienced with few other people. Case in point, the bachelor party they'd thrown him that neither ignored his upcoming wedding nor demanded he act as a man headed to the gallows rather than the altar. Deeply preferable to an evening spent pretending to agree with the worst boors New England high-society could produce.

And Charles knows that he must play politics tonight. It's nearly the entire point of having such an extravagant wedding, the ability to gain leverage over his political rivals via ostentatious displays of wealth. And the wedding reception will be as much about networking and one-upmanship as it will be about celebrating his marriage. But he still plans to sneak away from the polite backstabbing at the earliest possible opportunity to instead go and sit at the MASH table with his friends – and once there, he intends to stay, come hell or grandmotherly disapproval. Charles is sure, given their penchant for mischief, that at least Hawkeye and Trapper will help hide him from the more odious social obligations of the evening.

Charles imagines some sort of elaborate slapstick misdirection involving hiding underneath tables, Hawkeye impersonating his person, and scandalized maiden aunts. Buoyed by these thoughts, Charles finds himself grinning through the rest of the hymn. And then finally – finally! - the sacrament is given and received and the thundering organ ushers himself and Marjory into the merciful privacy of the waiting limo.

* * *

Marjory takes Charles's hand the moment they're alone – well, alone except for the chauffeur, but he won't tell.

“Was it everything you hoped for, dear?”

Charles gazes into her eyes, and his expression is most ardent. “It was - in that I've ended the ordeal married to you, my dear wife. Aha!” he exclaims in jubilation. “Wife! I can say that now!”

She smiles indulgently at him. “Indeed you can. Just as I can now refer to you as my darling husband.”

Charles squeezes her hand gently. “An epithet I shall be glad to bear for the rest of my days.” Then he turns serious. “I know the wedding was not as either of us would have wished but I am so very happy that it occurred and that we are married – and that I will never have to go through such ridiculousness again.”

“Oh, Charles, you charmer,” Marjory jokes good-humoredly.“You always know just what to say to set a lady's heart aflutter.”

They both erupt into rather childish giggles at that and Marjory cannot remember feeling so happy.

Despite everything, there are not many places she'd rather be than here, with Charles, commiserating over the absolute horror show that had been their wedding. And she thinks it rather bodes well for their life together that they _can_ laugh about it. That, as they go through life, even though things may not end up as either of them would have wished, they can make it through to the other side – and that they can find joy and humor in the situation. Marjory is truly the luckiest woman in the world, it feels like.

She lifts their joined hands kisses the back of Charles's hand, overcome. And he seems to understand, letting go of her hand only to wrap his arm around her and pull her closer. Marjory leans against his side, sheltered and held and loved. She hopes the drive to the hotel never ends.

But all good things, as they say. And Trinity Church is at most three blocks from the Copely Square hotel – a short enough distance that they could have probably walked there in less time than it has taken them to drive, but of course persons of their stature could never mingle with the plebeian masses that overrun the sidewalks and park on such a lovely summer day. But even with the congestion of traffic, they arrive at the hotel far too soon. And even though Charles has the chauffeur drive around the block once more before they pull up to the valet stand of the hotel, the two of them must, eventually, face the music. They must resume their roles as political showpieces – must prove themselves to be proud and preening to the public eye, rather than kind and rather silly and hopelessly, disgustingly in love.

The car pulls around to the front of the hotel and Marjory kisses Charles once for luck and then once more just because she can and she wants to and this is probably the last time they'll be able to be openly affectionate with one another until they retire to the honeymoon suite. And with the bolstering thought that this trial too must eventually end - and end in such a mutually satisfying manner as going to bed together- and the feeling of calm born of their brief respite from marital insanity, she signals to the driver that they are ready to disembark.

Ever the gentleman, Charles holds the door for her and Marjory leans imperceptibly into the strength and support of his arm as he escorts her into the ostentatious lobby. They are nearly immediately set upon by the hotel concierge, the manager in charge of the wedding reception, and a photographer. Marjory straightens her spine, pastes a look of cool superiority on her face, and readies herself to deal with more tedious bullshit.

* * *

As overjoyed as Charles is to be married – and as much as he may want to commemorate the occasion so that he may look back on the day fondly, even decades from now - he is getting rather annoyed at the never-ending reams of wedding photographs they are required to take. Most of them shall become keepsakes, to be housed in ostentatious silver frames and placed tastefully about the sitting rooms and public parlors, lest their house-guests forget that an Emerson Winchester married an Oakes – and that the wedding was full of a stately grandeur they could never hope to match. And yet more of the photographs will be sent to the preeminent Boston newspapers – and perhaps even New York, if Grandmama is particularly desirous of courting prestige – so that the society pages might announce the union. And as such, most of the pictures they take feature Marjory in a demure pose and Charles standing above her, looking haughty, with the full splendor of the Copely Square hotel in the background. Standard fare for this sort of thing.

But they manage to convince the photographer to deviate from his itinerary and to take some few photographs where they are actually looking at one another. Photographs where they are allowed to smile at one another - and Charles is quite sure that all of the ardent love and devotion he feels for Marjory is visible even through the camera lens – and he hopes that it will be visible in the photographs as well.

And Charles makes sure to tip the photographer most generously to ensure these photographs do not, somehow, go missing. Because emotions are, after all, unbecoming of individuals of their station and Grandmama will undoubtedly disapprove of the photographs when she sees them. But while Charles is not generally one for overt sentimentality, he rather wants to start a scrapbook or some other such nonsense to commemorate the day – some tangible object he can fill with the material proof of his love for Marjory and his incalculable joy at having wed her.

And then the hordes of bridesmaids and groomsmen and family descend and they must take part in endless photographs full of different combinations of the haughty cream of Boston high society. No chance of so much as smiling in those photographs, not with Grandmama watching, hawk-like, over the proceedings.

At least Honoria provides some much needed levity by standing off to the side, pulling increasingly ridiculous faces at Charles whenever she is not required to be in the photographs.

He must look quite stern and intimidating in those photographs – purely as a result of trying not to burst out laughing at Honoria's antics – as Grandmama compliments him on his deportment and ability to uphold the family name with dignity and without any of “that ridiculous love nonsense” entering into the equation. If only she knew.

Charles presses Marjory's hand surreptitiously – and thank the fickle winds of women's fashion for full skirts. They've allowed him to get away with rather a lot of soppy sentimentality today, hiding, as they do, his thumb tracing the back of Marjory's hand and allowing him to loop their pinky fingers together when they are stood next to one another in the group photographs. It is this hidden touch that has allowed him to make it through these interminable proceedings with as much equanimity as he has – and Charles is forever grateful for Marjory's continuous presence at his side.

And then finally, this ordeal, too, passes. Marjory lays her hand delicately on Charles's arm and leans ever so slightly into his side as they lead the rest of the wedding party in a stately procession to the ballroom and dinner.

Most of the tables are nearly full with all of the more tenuously related relatives and the guests who did not rate inclusion in the wedding photographs. Charles and Marjory take their seats at the head of the room to delicate applause. Well, most of the tables are delicate – the MASH table in the back manages to be both more raucous and more heartfelt in their greeting. Charles can even see Trapper pantomiming a wolf whistle and Hawkeye pretending to swoon upon seeing Marjory – a most appropriate reaction, to his mind – and she tips her head back in silent laughter at their ridiculousness and she looks so, so beautiful. Charles is once again confounded at his good fortune at having married her. But here she is, sitting next to him, her wedding ring flashing in the light as she gestures in response to something her mother is saying. Charles rubs his thumb across his own wedding band. The symbol of their union. The sign that Marjory is unequivocally, irreversibly his just as he is unequivocally, irreversibly hers.

It is this thought that gets him through the long and desperately dull “congratulatory” speeches. Charles has no doubt that if any of their actual friends were giving the speeches, they would indeed be congratulatory – and heartfelt and meaningful and any other positive adjective. But alas, the people giving them do not actually know Marjory or Charles terribly well. And the speeches are more performative grandstanding than actually emotionally relevant.

But Charles can spend there interminable length gazing adoringly at Marjory with naught but the gentle buzz of meaningless drivel to distract him from her countenance. And the individuals tasked with giving the speeches apparently do so love to hear themselves orate - it feels like Charles is back in his freshman debate class rather than his own wedding – so Charles has plenty of time to gaze in adoration. And Marjory has an expression of such warmth and love on her own face that he cannot wait for this farce of an evening to end so he can spend the rest of the night doing just this, with no one else around to bother them. Such as Charles's best man, who has apparently said something that constitutes a joke – and an intentional one, unlike the rest of the words that comes out of his mouth – and he is currently engaged in nudging Charles with his bespoke-suited elbow in attempted camaraderie. Charles sighs into his place setting. It's going to be a long fucking evening.

Finally, the so called best man wraps things up – with yet another so called witticism – and it's Charles's turn to speak. And his speech is, by necessity, more political than meaningful. Full of reminders of the strength and grandeur of the Emerson, Winchester, and Oakes families – and less than subtle hinting about what they can accomplish now that they are joined. It's not the speech he wishes to give, of course. No, that speech would be full of mad ravings about how wonderful and beautiful and intelligent and witty and all around perfect Marjory is – and how incredibly fortunate Charles is to have married her. But he must do a satisfactory job of the speech he does give, much as it pains him to give it, as Grandmama gives him a slight nod of approval as he retakes his seat – and presses his knee against Marjory's under the table. And then finally the political showboating is over and they can eat dinner.


	7. The 4077 Rides Again

It'd tookened his Ma a fair bit of convincing to get Radar to leave the farm and go to Dr. Winchester's wedding.

He'd'a still sent in the quilt square, of course. Cuz it means a lot to Max and to Hawkeye and to the rest of the MASH folks. And he don't like letting his friends down. But he really weren't sure about actually going to the wedding.

Partways cuz he ain't left home for further away than Patricia's hometown of Lancaster since he got back from Korea. And he knows – best he can, anyway, it ain't like he's got a _feeling_ about it or nothin – that everything's gonna be ok while he's gone. Park Sung's more'n able to look after things for a weekend and the wedding's set between planting and harvest so there ain't much to be done around the place but rooting out weeds and looking after the animals. But still, Radar don't like leaving 'em in a lurch.

But the other part – which he don't really like thinking on, even though he'd been sure to tell Patricia and his Ma, just in case things went bad and they came home early – is that Dr. Winchester don't really like him all that much. Thinks Radar's too far beneath him to be worth considering. And Radar's used to being overlooked – he ain't the smartest or the handsomest or the best at anything, really. And plenty of the commissioned officers had been like that – rude and mean and thoughtless. But that don't mean it don't still hurt. And it don't mean he wants to spend a whole weekend getting looked down on like that by Dr. Winchester again.

Truth to tell, Radar'd been shocked to get an invitation at all – and written on the fanciest paper he's ever seen, with little flowers worked in it – nice enough to put in a picture frame and hang on the wall, and being used for writing on! But there'd been his name, wrote out in real pretty handwriting and under it a little note in the same writing saying how much Mrs. Dr. Winchester wanted to meet him.

But nothing from Dr. Winchester.

So it just feels like maybe he don't know Radar's coming, is all. And that maybe he and Patricia'll get there and Dr. Winchester'll be real mad and condescending and mean like he gets and they'll get throwed outta there.

Which would be too bad, cuz Radar's really looking forward to seeing all the folks from the 4077 who'll be there too – an it won't be everybody of course, cuz Dr. Winchester weren't there for the first half of the war, an he don't care for some of the folks from the 4077 even more than he don't care for Radar. But Hawkeye'll be there and Trapper and BJ and maybe even Max, who Radar's really missed – the one person who'd never ragged on him for being short or a kid or homesick or nothing. Though Dr. Winchester don't like Max any more than he'd liked Radar, so it ain't likely.

But his Ma'd just said “nothing ventured means nothing gained” in response to Radar's worries. And that's true enough. He wouldn't be where he is with Patricia if'n he hadn't'a talked to her that day in Kimpo and then wrote to her once he got back home. And he wouldn't have Park Soon's help here at the farm if'n he hadn't'a wrote to Hawkeye about the farm – and then told the truth of the matter when they'd found him out in his lies. And he could'a saved a whole mess of time if'n he'd'a just wrote the truth in the first place – been honest with his friends from the start, even though it'd been embarrassing to admit he were struggling.

His Ma'd been right, of course, so he and Patrica'd headed up to Ottumwa and got the bus out East. And that'd been all right, as things go. It's a good thing he and Patricia like seeing a lot of each other, though, boy, cuz it'd tookened near to a whole day to get where they were going – and the bus'd broke down once and it was almost like being back on an army transport – minus being shelled.

But now they're in Boston in the lobby of a real fancy hotel – the kind of place Radar ain't sure they ain't gonna get kicked outta, invitation or no. He feels like a real rube, standing there rubbernecking at all the gold and fancy chandeliers and all the folks dressed up real nice just to set in the lobby. But then he sees Max and Soon Li up by the check-in desk and when he comes up to 'em, Max smiles real big and hugs Radar and starts shooting the breeze like it ain't been no time at all since they'd seen each other. And Radar figures things oughtta work out all right after all. And he is really looking forward to seeing the rest of his friends from Korea.

* * *

Trapper and Hawkeye and all their house-guests cram into a cab over to Back Bay and the poncy hotel Charles's wedding reception is at. And they're a little early – mostly so the ladies have time to change into the fancy duds called for in the dress code – and ain't that a kicker, having a little printed card of what you can and can't wear included in the invitation instead of just saying to dress nice or whatever. But maybe that's normal for posh weddings, Trapper wouldn't know. All he knows is that he's glad the guys' instructions just say black tie.

At any rate, it's good they get there early cuz there's a little bit of a SNAFU when they try to check in cuz the concierge don't wanna accept their invitations as legitimate at first. But Margaret strong arms him into letting them in with the power of righteous indignation and the threat of a shiner. So they collect their keys and split off to their rooms – well, Sidney and Steve and Millie do, he and Hawkeye and the gals don't gotta split very far. Since ostensibly Hawkeye's taking Margaret to this shindig and Trapper's bringing Kat they've got a suite made up of a couple bedrooms, a bathroom, and even a little living room to divide up how they want.

“Charles must not have wanted to make any assumptions about the sleeping arrangements,” Hawkeye says lightly. “Either that or Marjory set all this up.”

“It could have been Charles, I suppose.” Margaret sounds pretty doubtful, though. “I mean, he can be surprisingly tactful sometimes. Though I doubt he knows the truth of the situation – he's probably just concerned about how it would look having unmarried couples sneaking into each others' rooms.”

The concierge had very pointedly informed Steve and Millie that they were in a room with two twin beds – not that that's much of a deterrent, in Trapper's experience. After you've fucked in an army cot, a twin bed is positively roomy. And Charles or Marjory or whoever set this up probably knows that. But it's all gotta look right on paper - hence their little setup.

“Yeah,” adds Kat. “We wouldn't want to give any of those little old rich ladies the impression that people have sex for fun.”

“Heaven forbid,” Trapper says in his best impression of his pearl clutching former mother-in-law.

“Fortunately for Charles's reputation as a pillar of Boston high society, my days of sneaking into the nurses' tent are long over.” Hawkeye gives Trapper an unbearably smarmy look and Trapper chucks one of the stupid little throw pillows at him.

Margaret and Kat roll their eyes at them and leave the line of fire to finish getting ready. Hawkeye and Trapper grin at each other – they've just been given implicit permission to fuck around like dumb kids for a while and they're gonna take full advantage of it. It might be the last chance at fun for the whole night, given what a wedding reception run by the illustrious Winchester family is bound to be like.

But before they can start an all out pillow fight, there's a knock at the door.

“Max! Soon Li!” Hawkeye exclaims, tearing the door open. “What brings you to our humble abode?”

“I come bearing gifts – or one gift specifically. I figured everyone'd wanna put their cards in with the quilt before we put it on the gift table. And I heard a rumor you got all this extra real estate, so I figured you wouldn't mind hosting.” Max looks around as she sets the quilt – wrapped in hideously gaudy wrapping paper – on the side table. “Radar wasn't kidding about your hotel room being palatial. I'm pretty sure it's bigger than my whole fucking apartment.”

“Just one of the many perks of having rich friends and a socially unacceptable relationship,” Hawkeye says glibly. “But we're happy to babysit the quilt – it'll give us a chance to catch up with everyone as they wander through. I'm assuming you and Radar told everyone else where to find us.”

“Speaking of catching up,” Trapper interjects as he goes from formally introducing himself to Soon Li to greeting Max - more interested in giving her a great big hug than the inner workings of all things Radar. “It's real nice seeing you again, Max,” he says into the top of her head – and then he pulls back and gives her a once over, “Kinda weird seeing you in men's civvies, though.”

Soon Li nods. “Men's clothes are so ugly. Like a flour sack.”

“To be fair, this looks like some quality tailoring. Just not the Max Klinger I remember.”

Trapper walks around her, taking in all the angles, seeming bemused. And that's right. Trapper wasn't there for the end of the war when Max had started wearing army issue fatigues and men's clothing. Partly it was trying to live up to the new rank and new responsibilities – people just tended to trust her more in “normal” clothing – and she was willing to sacrifice to make sure the 4077 ran smoothly. And partly it was the blue discharges being handed out like candy as part of Eisenhower's campaign bid. Why exactly the folks at home cared about that over things like being able to pay the bills and put food on the table, she still doesn't know.

But Max wanted out on a psycho – the respectable way – and not a blue discharge. So the uniform and the wacky costumes had replaced the Klinger collection. At least on the surface.

Max laughs. “Don't worry, I'm wearing a delightful little seafoam camisole and panty set underneath. Still the Max Klinger you know and love.”

“Oh yeah?” And now Trapper's looming behind Max, hands on her hips, tall and broad and full of the flirtatious intensity she remembers from Korea.

The kind of flirtation that says “I'm only joking - unless you're interested, and then I'm completely serious.” The kind of flirtation you had to use for situations like these. But it's also the kind of flirtation that won't be upset at Max's refusal.

So she just turns and pushes Trapper away playfully. “Stop it you lech. I'm a married woman now.”

“And Soon Li's one hell of a lucky gal,” is Trapper's easy response. And he winks at her across the room. So his complete inability to get jealous hasn't changed from Korea – good to know.

“Flattery won't get you a private fashion show,” Max teases. “But it may get you a discount on any future lingerie purchases.” She turns to Hawkeye, who'd been watching all this unfold with a sort of amused fondness. “Maybe something in powder blue lace?” It would look lovely against his skin tone and really bring out his eyes.

“Fuck.” Trapper sounds like he's been punched in the gut and had all the air knocked out of him. “You don't play fair at all, Max.”

She pats Trapper's cheek in gentle mockery. “I never have – and I don't see any reason to start now. Besides, someone has to keep my new tailoring business afloat.”

“Yes, Max, you must keep me in the station to which I've become accustomed,” Soon Li says with a laugh.

Trapper slaps Max on the back. “Good thing you make the big bucks, then, huh?”

“It's got to be lucrative, being Toledo's only Mob affiliated tailor,” Hawkeye jokes. Which may or may not actually be true, Max doesn't know.

She winks at him. “Watch out. You're consorting with a known criminal.”

“Better to be in bed with the mob than the cops,” Trapper says with a shrug. “At least their quota's just in dollars not arrested degenerates.”

“It's true,” Max says with a slightly bitter laugh.

Cuz it is. Uncle Habib's Mob affiliation is the reason Max is in business at all – bribes and the threat of Mob retaliation keeps the cops from looking too close. And as long as Max provides a veneer of honest commerce to the operation, the Mob doesn't look at her clients – or herself - too close either.

“Allah be praised for good old fashioned back-alley enterprise.”

“And naked greed,” Trapper adds.

“I suppose I shouldn't be surprised at nudity being your conversation topic of choice,” Sidney says as he and Father Mulcahy join the rapidly growing little party in their hotel room.

“Padre!” Hawkeye rushes up to him and kisses him exuberantly on the cheek. “It's been forever since we've seen you – what gives? You get sick of poker?”

“I hope not,” Trapper interjects. “I'm pretty sure a game'll break out at some point tonight.”

“And since you're here, we'll be able to write off our losses as a charitable donation to the orphan's fund,” Hawkeye adds with a laugh.

After a beat, the Padre laughs as well. “Don't you worry, I brought along a deck of cards and a collection plate. Though I've been doing more work with Deaf youths than orphans, now.”

Hawkeye and Trapper both seem to notice the pause – and they have some sort of silent conversation about it if the subtle facial expressions and hand gestures are any indication.

Francis touches the stem of his hearing aides. And his friends must have noticed these as well – they are certainly obtrusive. He knows Sidney has. Though he hasn't said anything, just making sure to enunciate clearly and speak facing Francis.

Or perhaps the hearing aids just feel large and clunky and obvious. He's still getting used to wearing them, after all. And they don't quite feel natural yet the way his glasses do.

He'd had surgery after coming back from Korea – promised as a miracle cure for his type of hearing damage. Apparently shelling had done a number on many young men and doctors were scrambling to find a way to reverse the damage. And Francis has seen his fair share of miracles in Korea, particularly of the medical variety, so he'd agreed to undergo the procedure at the prompting of the Philadelphia diocese, who were eager to have him go back to his old role of hearing confessions and leading youth group at the local Catholic Youth Center – both of which required he be able to, well, hear.

But the Lord often works in mysterious ways, as he'd kept telling himself during the worst of the Korean war. So when the surgery didn't work, it was obvious to Francis that he is meant to be deaf. And when they'd offered to try again with a second operation, he'd told them not to bother and spent the time recovering from surgery by learning sign language. Which is good because the healing scars behind his ears had prevented him from wearing hearing aids for several weeks and even now the aids are uncomfortable enough that he doesn't wear them all the time. Plus, they don't really restore all of his hearing – he still mostly depends on being able to read lips. And his friends obviously noticed that fact.

But all Hawkeye says is, “Certainly a noble cause – and one I'm more than happy to donate my disposable income towards.”

And he says all this while signing along.

“Where did you learn that?” Francis blurts out. No one other than BJ knew he was deaf – and he'd promised not to tell anyone.

And Trapper and Max and Sidney look just as surprised as he is. So it can't have been BJ spilling the proverbial beans.

Hawkeye shrugs. “My grandpa taught me. All the old fishermen used to use sign language on the lobster boats – easier than trying to yell at one another over a storm. And apparently it got to be common enough that everyone around town used it. Up until Alexander Graham Bell showed up and convinced everyone it would encourage Deaf people to have families together and lead to a decay in the moral fabric of America, anyway.”

“Good thing you've never cared about decaying moral fabric,” Trapper says with a sly smile.

And Max chimes in with, “Sounds to me like he probably just wanted to sell more telephones. What a scam artist.”

And then they're all laughing and joking around like they used to, with Francis right there in the middle of it. It feels like no time at all has passed – like Francis is still in Korea and it's terrible and wonderful and it feels like home the way the Philadelphia neighborhood where he grew up and came back to administer over used to feel like. And he sinks back into the feeling of friendship and belonging the same way he sinks into the plush sofa he'd been pushed into by Hawkeye. Who always did like taking care of his friends.

Friends who keep filtering in and out of the hotel room – stopping in to drop off their cards to go along with the quilt, or just to say hi, or to sit and chat a while. The room gets a little crowded and Francis feels slightly, well, _pressed_. And Hawkeye looks like he's getting a little claustrophobic. So when Margaret and Trapper's date emerge from one of the bedrooms, he makes is way over to where Hawkeye's standing with Colonel and Mrs. Potter and says, “I'm going down to the reception now,” just to gauge where Hawkeye's standing.

“You want me to come with you?” And Hawkeye seems very eager to be out of the overcrowded room. And he's always looking for a way to help others. Even when he won't admit to needing help himself.

So Francis nods. “If you don't mind acting as translator for a while tonight. My sister the Sister couldn't make it – and I'm afraid crowds make things more difficult.”

“Sure thing Padre.” Hawkeye throws an arm over Francis's shoulders, indicates to Trapper that he's leaving, and starts directing them out the door. “Though you should know I mostly used sign language to pass notes in class – so sorry if most of my vocabulary involves insulting algebra.”

Francis laughs – partly from Hawkeye's disclaimer and partly because he can vaguely hear Trapper telling everyone in the hotel room to get the hell out, he's not the one running the reception. So they – plus Margaret, once she's done saying her goodbyes to Trapper's date and some of the other nurses - lead something of a stampede down to the ballroom. But it's more spread out than things in the hotel room had been, so that's a blessing.

With the hotel room cleared out, Trapper does an inventory of all the cards they've accumulated in a towering stack next to the quilt.

“Looks like we're just missing BJ,” Max says from where she's looking over his elbow. “He always did have a kinda California attitude about showing up on time.” Unlike her, who, as a good daughter of the Midwest, always showed up at least fifteen minutes early to appointments.

Trapper checks his watch. “We've still got a bit before the shindig's supposed to officially start. And rich people like to be fashionably late anyway.” He turns to Kat. “But if you want to head down now, I figure Max can take it from here.”

Max throws herself at him like some heroine from a bad romance novel. “Trapper! How could you! I am but a poor and delicate maiden. This heavy gift is too much for my frail arms to bear. Please! Won't some strapping young man help me with this task?” She feels up his arms. “Preferably one with real big biceps.”

Trapper blushes – and part of it may be that everyone's laughing at Max's ridiculous statement – but part of it could be that Max is still sort of thrown over as much of him as she can reach. It would probably work better if she was in heels, to be honest. But it's not her fault he's so tall and she's in flats.

“C'mon, Max, quit trying to snow me. It ain't gonna work.” He's doing his best to keep an aloof expression, but Max can see where the cracks are starting to form. And she's always been good at applying pressure in just the right way to get what she wants. And Trapper's a pretty easy mark, anyway, since he genuinely likes her and all.

“But Trapper, Hawkeye got you to fight that one guy just by saying you had a cute body. Is that it? Do I gotta start complimenting you?” She bats her eyelashes coquettishly. “You're so _strong_ , and handsome, and-”

“Ok, ok, cut it out. I'll deliver the damn gift. Just stop doing that.”

Terminal embarrassment works pretty good too, it turns out.

Max flounces over to Soon Li, secure in the knowledge that the quilt isn't her responsibility anymore. “C'mon, sweetheart, let's get outta here.” And then over her shoulder, “Thanks again for being such a good friend, Trapper!”

He flips her off, but she and Soon Li are free and clear, and Trapper will get over it. Eventually. She might owe him for a while – but it's worth it.

With just Kat and Sidney left, and it getting later and later, Trapper turns to them and says, “You guys may as well get out of here, too. There's no point in us all being late.”

Kat shrugs. “Sure, I'll let Sidney take over as my date. It's no skin off my teeth. But you forgot to pin me, Trap.” She points meaningfully to her lapel.

Trapper wiggles his eyebrows lecherously and goes to get the corsage.

“Violets?” Kat arches an eyebrow at Trapper as he pins it to her dress. “Real cute, McIntyre.”

“Hey, you just told me your dress was purple, is all.”

“Lavender, actually.” She grins.

“All right, _now_ who's being cute?” Trapper asks teasingly.

Kat just sticks her tongue out at him and things devolve into something of a scuffle. Sidney sits on the back of the couch, egging Kat on when she gets Trapper in a headlock – and that's when BJ decides to finally show up. She and Trapper step away from one another, coughing awkwardly, and try to straighten out their fancy clothes.

“I think that's our cue to leave,” Sidney says into the unbroken silence.

BJ just stands there looking taken aback. And the woman who must be Peg looks like she's trying not to laugh. But it's probably better to hotfoot it out of there – so Kat readily takes Sidney's arm and they kind of edge past BJ and Peg and out the door.

“You here to put your card with the quilt?” Trapper asks when it becomes apparent that BJ isn't going to say anything or move from where he's still standing in the doorway.

And that seems to spark him into action – which is good, cuz by now they're officially late to the reception. And since they hadn't been invited to the actual  _wedding_ wedding, just the reception, Trapper wants to make the most of it.

Not that he's gonna complain about not having to sit through some endless protestant Mass just to watch his friends make out. 

Fine, he's a little sad he didn't get to go. But the reception – if BJ ever hurries it up so he can get to it –oughtta be good, seeing as they're pretty much treating it as a 4077 reunion being held on the Winchester's dime. And there's a lot worse ways to spend a weekend. Like standing here in a hotel room while BJ fumbles through his pockets for a card that his wife has meanwhile pulled out of her purse.

And it don't look like things are gonna get any less awkward anytime soon. So Trapper grabs the present from the side table, with all the cards kinda piled on top. And Peg puts their card on the pile and then gently chivies her husband out the door so Trapper can lock up. And it's probably pretty rude to just leave them there in the hallway without waiting so they can all walk down to the reception together – but Trapper just wants this errand over with so he can go sit with his friends some more. And Peg and BJ seem to be having a moment together anyway, so he sets out alone.

He's gonna kill Max for leaving him to wrangle the gift without her.


	8. Dinner...

“I feel like an idiot.”

BJ curls into Peg's side and she wraps her arms around him. And they're still standing right outside of the hotel room door, blocking the hallway. But her husband clearly needs this right now – and she won't be the one to pull away.

“I just – I just spent so long getting ready to see Hawkeye, you know? And then he wasn't there. It was Trapper!”

And BJ's voice is full of anguish. Peg holds him closer.

“I know dear, I know,” she soothes.

He had clearly been thrown for a loop. And she can understand why. He'd been both looking forward to the reunion and dreading it for weeks now. He'd stood in their hotel room tying and untying and retying his tie in an expression of nervous excitement – and a desire for everything to be perfect for his and Hawkeye's reunion. And that's been shot in the foot, now, hasn't it? But there's nothing either of them can do about it now.

And they are running a bit late at this point. Late enough that Trapper has disappeared downstairs with the wedding present and they're left standing alone in the empty hallway. Late enough that she doesn't have the time to comfort him like she wants to.

None of this is going how they wanted it to. But it will all turn out all right, she's sure. Because the two of them are here together and they'll figure things out - come hell or high water. So she holds BJ tight once more and then gentles his head out of the crook of her neck. A position that he'd had to contort himself into, bending his knees to reach – and that can't have been comfortable at all.

“BJ, look at me. You're not an idiot. And I'm sure Hawkeye is downstairs with the others, waiting for us.”

The “So let's get a move on, huh?” is silent but heavily implied. And he can't really argue with that – much as he just wants to spend the whole reception in his room where it's safe. Where he doesn't have to confront his feelings for Hawkeye. Where he doesn't have to have the coming awkward conversation of just what, exactly, those feelings are. Where he doesn't have to come face-to-face with Trapper – the lover of the man he's in love with, and who he just made an idiot out of himself in-front of.

At least things can't get any worse, impressions-wise. And Hawkeye's already seen him at pretty much his worst anyway and they're still friends.

“Ok, yeah. Let's head down.”

* * *

Trapper makes the long, awkward slog to the gift table at the front of the reception hall. And it feels like all the rich fuckers are staring at him – cussing him out with their eyes for daring to be late, and be him, and pollute their refinement with his presence. And Jesus fucking Christ, he hates Back Bay. Charles had better fucking appreciate this.

And he ain't feeling too fucking charitable towards BJ for making him this late – and therefor the center of attention like this - either.

But Trapper's had plenty of practice bullshitting his way through poncy parties where people just barely tolerate his presence – left over from his college days at Dartmouth and the yearly holiday shitshow with his ex-wife's family – so he keeps his back straight and his face blank and his seething pissed-offedness locked up tight.

He delivers the gift. And Max owes him so fucking big for this. But also, he's glad this is happening to him and not her and Soon Li. Cuz that would prolly get about a million times worse for them than it is for him. And Max would mouth off at someone – or Soon Li would, cuz she ain't one to be condescended to either. And then whatever rich fucker'd started it would get even more upset. And that wouldn't end well for anyone.

Trapper can see the whole scenario play out piece by piece – and it ends with Max and Soon Li getting kicked out. And then the party wouldn't be no fun at all. So it's just as well she's a conniving little bastard who knows just how to play him.

But he ain't gonna let it go that easy, either. Not when he can prolly knock her down another five percent or so on that lingerie price via guilt trip, anyway.

Task complete, Trapper swings by the bar cuz he's noticed that none of the tables have any drinks other than booze at them. And maybe Marjory made sure Hawkeye's got something he can drink - but he wouldn't bet on it, given that even the kids got champagne to toast the happy couple – whenever they actually show up. And some of the kids are clearly parroting their parents in describing the bouquet of the wine or whatever else bullshit. Which, Jesus Christ. Imagine being a wine snob at eight.

So anyway, Trapper gets Hawkeye a Shirley Temple, which nets him a weird look from the bartender, but it ain't like he gives a shit about what he thinks either. Thought even the reception's bartender is posher than just about anyone else Trapper's ever regularly interacted with. Only the best at this wedding, apparently.

And then finally, Hawk's drink in hand, he makes his way over to his designated table, and thank God that's over with. And thank God that they – all the MASH contingent, plus Letta and her husband – have been put at an out of the way table so none of the Emersons or Winchesters or Oakes will have to look at them. And maybe that should feel like a snub, but Trapper's honestly glad he won't have to put up with any of the sneers and glares he got walking into the reception while he's eating dinner.

* * *

“Hawk!” BJ exclaims and goes tearing across the ballroom toward a tall, thin man with salt and pepper hair and an old fashioned tuxedo, sitting next to a man who appears to be a priest. Which seems rather out of character for the description she has of Hawkeye Pierce. But the man stands at her husband's shout.

And responds with an equally exuberant, “Beej!” before getting pulled into a bear hug.

At least BJ's anxiety about seeing Hawkeye again appears to have abated.

Peg approaches more sedately than her husband, so they've broken apart by the time she gets close.

“The infamous Hawkeye Pierce, I presume?”

He looks different from the grainy black-and-white photos she's caught glimpses of in passing, when cleaning BJ's study or when they'd been passed around to her and Erin if BJ'd been telling bedtime stories about Korea and in a particularly nostalgic mood. The man in those photographs had looked gaunt and tired and overall worn down by the mundane horrors of war. This man here is vibrant and alive and full of the kind of childish mischief most people outgrow a decade or so earlier. But despite the differences, this man is undoubtedly Hawkeye.

He grins and holds out a hand. “And you must be Peg! It's wonderful to finally meet you in person.” Then his expression turns sly. “BJ, you've been holding out on me. Your stories didn't come close to doing her justice.”

Peg finds herself grinning despite herself. Hawkeye is quite the charmer - no wonder her husband had been so taken with him.

“Hey, hands off my wife! Go bother your own date.” BJ pretends affront.

“Would that I could, but alas, Margaret has run off to the powder room with Kat and half the other women at the table. They're either unionizing or planning a bank robbery.” He turns conspiratorially to Peg. “If you want to get in on the ground floor of the heist, I'd cut out now.”

Peg laughs. “I think I'll wait a few more years to start a life of crime. At least until the children are a little older.”

“I'm just surprised Margaret agreed to be seen with you,” BJ chimes in.

“Well, it was between me and Trapper – and Kat drew the short straw in the date department.” Hawkeye grins at Trapper, who's just arrived at the table, presumably from dropping off the wedding present.

“Ouch,” Trapper says, not sounding very hurt. “Just for that, you're getting your own drink next time, Hawkeye.”

But he's smiling as he hands over the glass of whatever it is. And Peg watches as their fingers brush and linger. And she sees how Trapper angles himself around Hawkeye, pressing against him in a way that would look innocuous if you didn't know better.

Peg hadn't been entirely certain that her husband wasn't reading too much into things. That Hawkeye and Trapper weren't simply very close friends, the way she assumed BJ and Hawkeye had been. Friends forged in war and terror – and closer than brothers for it.

But it turns out that BJ's in love with Hawkeye.

And then she'd thought that maybe BJ was reading too much into Trapper and Hawkeye's relationship because of how he felt about Hawkeye. Like if Hawkeye really was a homosexual and in a relationship with Trapper, then there was a chance for BJ too. And maybe it's all just wishful thinking.

But it's fairly obvious, now, that BJ was right. And that Hawkeye's relationship with Trapper is more than simple friendship. Which has some potentially unfortunate implications for BJ's chances with Hawkeye. Which Peg doesn't really know whether to be happy or disappointed about, she honestly doesn't.

And now the conversation has foundered with her focus on Trapper and Hawkeye – and on the two of them together– and BJ's focus on her reaction. So she endeavors to set those thoughts aside for now and return to the social niceties.

“Who's Kat?” Peg asks. BJ hadn't mentioned her in any of his stories about Korea. Maybe she left before he got there.

“Margaret's roommate,” Hawkeye supplies. With perhaps a touch of emphasis. Hmmm.

“So you're on a double date?”

Trapper laughs. “Just like old times. Though I don't remember them running out on us quite this fast in Korea.”

“That's just because there were fewer places to hide.” And that's how Peg meets Major Margaret Houlihan. BJ really was _not_ exaggerating about her in his stories at all.

* * *

Finally, Charles and Marjory and all the rest of the wedding party show up – so Trapper'd been glared at for nothing. He guesses the rich get to decide how late is fashionable and how late is rude and everyone else just has to lump it. But their arrival seems to be the signal for everyone to sit down and shut up so that a succession of really boring people can make terrible speeches about how great Charles and/or Marjory are. All without really seeming to know them at all.

Trapper's a little jealous of Hawkeye, BJ, Peg, and the Padre cuz they're carrying on a silent conversation in sign language the whole time – even with the other three way down the table - and that looks like a lot more fun than trying to actually pay attention. But Trapper does have Kat whispering sarcastic commentary in his ear. And sure, it's mostly so he'll whisper it into Margaret's ear like some kinda lesbian to lesbian telegraph service. But he'll take what he can get at this point.

And God, he'd forgotten how much fun Kat is. Not that Margaret ain't a good time – but Kat has one hell of a sharp tongue and Trapper's counting on her running commentary to make this upper-crust shitshow of a wedding reception bearable. Since all the Back Bay snobs are gonna be gossiping about Trapper and his friends all night, he may as well get his own entertainment outta them.

And then Honoria joins their table after the speeches finish up and dinner gets started. And she's apparently stolen a bottle of top-shelf champagne from the head table to get their portion of the party started early.

“Shouldn't you be in the wedding party?” Hawkeye asks her after turning down a wine glass of champagne. “You know, since your brother is the one getting married.”

“And your dress looks an awful lot like a bridesmaid dress,” Trapper adds. “You on the lamb?”

“It-t's tr-true,” Honoria says, with a dramatic hand to her brow. “I confess, I've run aw-way from home.”

“They gonna come hunt you down?” Trapper's a little wary of causing more of a scene this early in the proceedings.

“Ooh, do you need a disguise?” Hawkeye asks, delighted at the prospect. “How bout you and Max swap outfits, you're about the same size.”

“And I look absolutely stunning in teal, it has to be said,” Max adds from down the table.

She laughs. “Th-thanks, but I doubt th-they mind I've gone missing. Less chance of embarrassing th-the family w-way over here.”

“I'm sure that's not true,” Margaret chimes in. “Charles always spoke very fondly of you, Honoria.”

“And you seem like a fun gal to spend time with,” Kat adds with intent.

Trapper bets her and Margaret will run off somewhere with Honoria the minute they can get away with it. Not that he can really blame them for jumping at a good time when it lands in front of them. He's just a little sore that his built in dance partner is gonna abandon him – given that was the whole point in getting a date to this shindig. He'll have to hope there's someone in the rest of herd of MASH vets and their partners that wants to take a spin around the dance floor.

“In fairness,” Hawkeye says, interrupting some pretty heavy eye contact between the three women, “Charles is too busy making eyes at Marjory to notice a herd of elephants stampeding through the ballroom – much less that his sister is missing.”

Trapper looks up at the happy couple. “I'll say this for 'em. They do genuinely seem to be in love.”

If Winchester gets to looking any sappier, he's gonna have little hearts coming outta his eyes like in a cartoon.

“Isn't it something,” Radar interjects in an awed tone.

“Radar! Come sit with us, it's been an eternity since I've seen you.” Hawkeye pats the seat next to him. They've all started playing musical chairs as various couples swap with each other, using the time it's taking for the servers to reach their table at the back of the room to catch up with everyone they've missed talking to, either upstairs or before the festivities got underway.

“You saw me upstairs ten minutes ago,” Radar grumbles under his breath. But he sits with them readily enough. And brings his date along as well.

Their whole table's completely ignoring the fancy little place cards set out for them – and given that Honoria's stolen a chair from some other table, that appears to be spreading across the whole room. Trapper can spot at least one surreptitious chair theft happening while the former owner is busy at the bar. And some of the guests are just baldly demanding others give up their seats since their own have gone missing and they're obviously much more important. It genuinely feels like things may come to blows – or the posh equivalent – at some point this evening. So at least there's that to look forward to.

And it's good to know that the 4077 can still sow chaos wherever they go. Though hopefully it doesn't get them booted out before dinner's even served.

And it's nice to catch up with Radar. He's changed a lot since Trapper'd last seen him – and even since Hawkeye had, apparently. And it ain't really a surprise. He'd been just a kid back in Korea, stuck in a shit situation with way too much on his shoulders. But now he's really come into himself, it seems like.

Radar talks about running the farm – and it sounds like him and Park Sung are doing a good job of it. Not that he's one to judge or anything. The depth of his experience with rural living amounts to going to visit Hawkeye's dad and a few semi-disastrous Boyscout camping trips as a kid. But he's glad Radar's happy. And his Ma's apparently doing fine too.

But mostly, Radar talks about Patricia – his date to this little shindig and who's been pulled into a conversation about nursing by Margaret and Kat. Leaving Radar to gush over how smart and pretty and all around wonderful she is - to Trapper and Hawkeye's amusement. To hear Radar talk, she's invented penicillin and polio vaccines all in one.

Finally, Radar pauses to take a breath and Hawkeye mock whispers, “Do I hear wedding bells?” And at Radar's blushing nod, he sniffs dramatically and pretends to wipe his eyes with a handkerchief. “They grow up so fast, don't they Trapper?”

“Seems like just yesterday we were conspiring to get him a date.”

“Yeah, after his fiance threw him over – jokes on her,” Hawkeye says, pinching Radar's cheek, “Radar's grown up to be quite the catch.”

“Oh, cut it out you guys. I ain't some dumb kid no more. And me and Patricia are engaged now, anyway. So I ain't thought about Lindy Sue in forever.”

“Engaged!” Hawkeye gasps, affronted. “And you didn't tell us? Does family mean nothing to you?”

Radar looks abashed and mumbles “I didn't figure you'd wanna come all the way out to Ottumwa for the wedding so I didn't bother sending nothing out. Id'a told you after I was actually hitched.”

And it makes sense, given Radar'd been left at the altar before. He wouldn't wanna jinx nothing by spreading things around. But it looks like both of them are in this thing for the long haul.

So Trapper throws an arm around his shoulders. “Radar, Radar, Radar. It's us.”

“Your Aunt and Uncle,” Hawkeye continues. “We threatened to adopt you.”

“And those threats ain't made lightly.”

“Of _course_ we'd come to Iowa for the wedding.”

Radar blushes. It's a little embarrassing – them talking like they're his kinda parents still – but it's nice too. “Thanks you guys. I'll make sure to invite you once I know when it's happening.”

It sure won't be as grand as this one is. But it'd be real nice to have his friends there – Hawkeye and Trapper and maybe Max and Soon Li'd wanna come down for the wedding. It ain't that far from Toledo to Ottumwa. And maybe Colonel Potter'd wanna be there. He ain't Colonel Blake, but he'd done his best to look after Radar – just like Radar'd done his best to look after him. And it'd be real nice have the Father there, even if he'd have a pastor to officiate.

Radar leans back in his chair, closes his eyes, and lets himself open up to the future like a sunflower opening up to the sun. Till now, he'd been real careful to keep whatever it is lets him look squeezed shut tight, just in case he'd see something he don't wanna see. Like Patty leaving him like Lindy Su'd done – not that he's been thinkin on that or nothing. Or maybe he'd see some other kinda disaster befall them that'd keep 'em from getting hitched. And he's still scared of all that.

But here, with all his friends, it feels like things are gonna work out just fine. And like it ain't gonna hurt to let the future in.

Eventually, Radar and Patricia leave – running off to go talk to Max and the Padre about their engagement, looks like. And Trapper doesn't mind that. He knows they'll have time to chat again later if they want.

What he does mind is that BJ steals Radar's vacated seat, plopping himself right between him and Hawkeye.

BJ'd been kinda hovering in the background for a while now, like Hawkeye had suddenly gained a blond, over-earnest shadow. And Trapper figures he's probably missed seeing Hawkeye everyday like Trapper knows he had after getting home, so he can't begrudge them wanting to catch up. And he has a wallet full of kid pictures and enough public-appropriate stories from work they oughtta make it through dinner ok. If BJ even deigns to talk to him, that is.

He seems real fixed on talking to Hawkeye – and only Hawkeye. Margaret barely warrants a distracted nod and Trapper doesn't even get that.

But it ain't like they've ever been close, so he just shrugs it off and goes to talk to BJ's wife. She's small and blond and pretty – and bears a striking resemblance to Louise. It's a little uncanny, if Trapper's being honest.

Mrs. “Peg, call me Peg” Hunnicutt seems like a nice gal, though. Shame about her husband.

And that's maybe a little _too_ catty. So he turns to engage Peg in conversation about her real estate career – and the interior decorating that goes along with it - cuz it seems polite and she's kinda being ignored by BJ, too. And maybe not his favorite topic – or one that he knows anything about, given that he'd pretty much left his house like Louise had had it, plus a few additions from Hawkeye and his dad – but it beats trying to horn in where he ain't wanted.

Seeing Hawkeye is... seeing Hawkeye is indescribable. BJ almost can't believe that he's real and here and sitting next to him. Close enough that BJ can _feel_ Hawkeye – electric and chaotic and full of an infectious joy that's not exactly settling but that feels familiar like home and bright shiny new all at once. Magnetic in a way that makes BJ have to fight not to touch him, press against his side, throw an arm around his shoulders, pull him into another hug and just never let go.

He turns sideways a little in his seat to more fully face Hawkeye and it brings their knees bumping together under the table and it's like there's a live wire running through him lighting him up and he can't fucking stand it.

Can't keep hold of the thread of whatever story Hawkeye's telling because he's too busy watching the dance of his hands. Too busy feeling the press of his leg when he leans towards BJ during an especially emphatic point. Too busy looking at Hawkeye's face – split by a huge grin and with his eyes all crinkled up in mirth and shining with joy as he tells the punchline of a joke.

He can't bear to tear himself away.

And then Hawkeye's leaning behind BJ to talk to Trapper and the little world he's built around just the two of them comes crashing down. Because, oh yeah, there's other people in the room aside from him and Hawkeye.

All the ambient noise of the room rushes back in – including Hawkeye rattling his glass of ice meaningfully at Trapper.

Who's leaning around BJ to smirk at Hawkeye – and there's an intensity so very visible in his eyes. “Why Hawk, would you like another drink?”

Hawkeye effects a “who, me?” expression, which just prompts Trapper to roll his eyes and take the glass from him – hands brushing and lingering – and BJ has to turn away.

Trapper stands and turns to the ladies. “You want a drink, Maggie? Kat?”

Kat waves him away but Margaret orders, “Scotch and water, tall,” with all the strength and steel of a military command.

“Yes ma'am!” Trapper sketches a sarcastic little salute. And then he turns to Peg. “How 'bout you, Peg? What're you drinking?” And he seems very familiar, leaning towards her in a way BJ doesn't particularly like.

“I'll be buying Peg's drinks,” BJ interjects. Where does Trapper get off flirting with _his_ wife?

Trapper looks a little taken aback – and maybe BJ shouldn't have been so quick to jump down his throat. It's just that things between him and Peg have been a little – not strained, never that – but different. Like they're standing at the precipice of something neither of them can see and trusting that everything will be ok if they jump. So BJ's maybe been a little _protective_ of her.

Luckily, Trapper just shrugs and says, “C'mon then” over his shoulder as he heads to the bar. And he seems completely relaxed walking through the crowded room, even as BJ wilts a little under the bald stares of the other wedding guests.

Although some of his self-consciousness may have something to do with being alone with Trapper without the buffer of Hawkeye – or even Charles – to ease the conversation along. And the way Trapper's lounging at the bar, all broad shoulders and long, lean body – seeming perfectly at ease – doesn't help any. And neither does the way Trapper plucks the cherry out of Hawkeye's drink, puts the whole thing in his mouth, stem and all, before pulling the stem back out, tied in a perfect little knot - which he places back in the glass like some kind of trophy or calling card or something.

BJ squirms a little in what's probably jealousy.

He downs his double Scotch in one and orders another. But the feeling is still there whenever he catches a glance of Trapper out of the corner of his eye – still sprawling on his barstool like he owns the whole damn hotel.

And it doesn't help when they get back to the table and he puts a big, possessive hand on Hawkeye's shoulder as he hands over his drink. Yes, definitely jealousy - and nothing else. Because what else could it possibly be?

And jealousy is something he's been trying to be better about. But hasn't exactly been easy – particularly with Trapper right there in front of him, flaunting his closeness with Hawkeye.

“Don't forget to tip your waiter,” Trapper jokes as he hands over Margaret's Scotch.

“Oh, I'll give you a tip and a whole lot more later tonight.”

Hawkeye's lascivious whisper right into his ear makes Trapper almost forget where he is and who he's with. But all he says is, “I look forward to it.” And then turns his gaze towards Margaret and Kat – two much more socially acceptable targets for whatever the hell his expression looks like right now.

And Margaret just smiles knowingly at him, bless her. “I don't know, Trapper. You took an awfully long time bringing a lady a drink. I'm not sure I care for the service at this establishment.”

No, she wouldn't, would she.

He laughs. “It's not my fault some pompous asshole ordered a punch Romaine – to be made immediately, of course – right in the middle of the bartender making your drink. I had to sit there for fifteen goddamn minutes while the poor guy chipped ice.”

“Oh! Is _that_ why my cherry's already been plucked?”

BJ chokes quietly on his drink.

“Sorry Hawk. I know how much you like to watch.”

Hawkeye opens his mouth for a rebuttal, but Margaret interrupts them by asking after the girls. Probably for the best, cuz they're being maybe a little too overt. BJ's giving them a kinda weird look, anyway. And the change in conversational topic means Trapper gets to show off Becky and Cathy's school pictures and a real nice snapshot from when they all went up to Maine to visit Hawkeye's dad.

Despite Hawkeye's insistence that Trapper loves his daughters more than just about anything else, BJ is still surprised when he pulls out a series of photos of his daughters and shows them to Margaret. Who passes them around to Kat and then Peg.

“Oh, Trapper, they're lovely!” Peg exclaims.

“That's Cathy.” Trapper leans over her to point out which daughter is which – and BJ has to stop himself from doing something stupid. Like tackling him from across the table.

“And that's Becky. She's smart as a whip – got that from my ex-wife, along with her looks, thank God.”

“Oh, I don't think you do too badly,” Hawkeye interjects glibly.

Trapper studiously ignores him. “And that's all of us at the beach in Maine with Hawk's dad and Steve and Millie.”

Peg laughs. “Here, BJ. You'll get a kick out of this.” She hands over the photo – and BJ's a little afraid of what might be in it to make Peg so certain he'll want to see it.

And oh _boy_. There's Hawkeye in swim trunks - and nothing else. And sure, BJ's seen him in his skivvies plenty – one of the dubious pleasures of living together in an army tent with no privacy and a roommate with even less shame. But this is different. This is... wow.

BJ's almost glad when the waiters show up to serve them dinner and he has to hand the photograph back to Trapper. But only almost. Because what he really wants to do is look at it long enough the planes and lines of Hawkeye's sunkissed skin are burned into his memory forever.

Maybe Hawkeye'd like to come out to California sometime – he's talked about it before in some of his letters. Then BJ would be the one throwing a casual arm over Hawkeye's naked shoulder. The one Hawkeye would lean into to keep his balance on the shifting sands.

Instead, it's Trapper that's standing there with his arm around Hawkeye's shoulders and with Hawkeye pressing into Trapper's side. Trapper standing there tan and built and – BJ will admit, but only under duress – attractive. The crooked grin and aviator sunglasses certainly don't detract from that impression and BJ wants to punch the non-photograph version right in his stupid, handsome face.

Because, the thing is, is that Trapper's not a bad looking guy, objectively speaking. BJ can see why Hawkeye might want to be with him – with his movie-star looks and his secretive little smirk. Flirtatiousness practically oozes out of him like an oil slick.

But that's the thing – he never seems sincere. Through all of their interactions – and now, through all of Trapper's interactions with Peg and Margaret and Kat and even Hawkeye – BJ has never once gotten the sense that Trapper has actually displayed a genuine emotion. He just sits there joking and flirting indiscriminately like none of it matters – like none of it means anything.

And BJ thinks Hawkeye deserves better.

Dinner's really nice. Lots of laughing and joking around and yelling down the table to pass the salt and elbowing each other in the ribs cuz they're all packed together like sardines. It's almost like being back in the mess tent – minus the accompanying horrors of the Korean war.

And they tell stories from Korea, all shouting over one another and arguing about how events actually transpired. BJ joins in for most of the ones from his tenure at the front. Including stories of pranks he'd played on Frank and Charles and even Hawkeye – which causes him to elbow BJ in the ribs while Trapper leans around him to grin at Hawkeye in silent laughter. And Margaret even chimes in with little tidbits about Frank Burns that none of the rest of them had even known about, so that's fun. Particularly the part about him having a weird thing for her feet. Just lovely. Hawkeye is _so_ glad he's learned this little fact.

“Between Frank and feet and Ponobscott and fingers, I feel like you tend to attract a very peculiar class of man, Maggie,” Kat says.

So it's just as well I've given them up, now isn't it, her eyebrows seem to say in response. And it really, really is.

“Wonder what that says about us, Trap, given that she wanted to jump your bones and actually jumped mine.”

Trapper laughs. “Don't worry Margaret, Hawkeye's into completely normal things like getting stepped on by women in high heels. You have nothing to worry about there.”

BJ blushes as Hawkeye practically launches himself across his lap to slap a hand over Trapper's mouth. “Shut up, Trap. Now she's never gonna wear those leather hip boots around me.”

Kat raises an eyebrow at Margaret who just smiles demurely. She makes a mental note because that. That bears future investigation.

Meanwhile, Trapper has licked Hawkeye's hand in a bid to get it off his mouth. And poor BJ's looking a little squashed with Hawkeye still half in his lap. And a little red in the face.

Probably because Hawkeye is now exclaiming, “Gross, Trap. Stop that – I know where your mouth has been.”

Trapper waggles his eyebrows lecherously. “And I know where your hand's been.”

Hawkeye laughs and runs his wet hand through Trapper's hair to dry it off. And their faces are right in front of BJ's when Hawkeye's hand catches in Trapper's curly hair and it's like time stops. They're just staring into each other's eyes – expressions full of such naked desire – and it's like BJ's caught in some kind of sexually charged force-field. And he's got to get out from between them, he's just got to.

Luckily, Peg rescues him by nudging Trapper in the shoulder – conveniently knocking him and Hawkeye out of their trance – and saying, “Why don't you swap with BJ? I'd like to spend some time talking to my own husband tonight.”

And Trapper agrees readily enough. Probably because it means he gets to sit next to Hawkeye too. But BJ can't bring himself to mind too much, not when he's got Peg's hand on his thigh and Hawkeye and Trapper have stopped looking at each other like they want to devour one another. Though Trapper pretty obviously has his leg pressed into Hawkeye's under the table – the way BJ had until just moments ago.

But he doesn't really want to think about that right now. So he gets down to the business of eating dinner and lets the chatter and laughter blend into a wash of background noise. The only thing that's real is him and his fork and Peg's small, soft hand on his leg.

BJ's gone a little quiet, Hawkeye notices. Quiet like he'd gotten towards the end of his visit to Boston. But maybe that's just how he is now. Hawkeye himself had gone through a similar change after the war, so he's not one to judge. And he's more than capable of filling the silences with stories of the better parts of the war – helped along by Trapper, who remembers some good ones that Hawkeye has half forgotten about.

And even though BJ isn't saying much, Hawkeye's enjoying getting to sit next to him. Just sort of soaking in his presence. Because he has missed BJ a whole hell of a lot over the years since Korea. And they have an unspecified number of days after the reunion to visit with one another, anyway.

Maybe BJ will open up a little more when it's just the two of them. Well, the two of them plus Peg. Who's an absolute delight and Hawkeye can more than understand why BJ's completely and utterly besotted with her. Which Trapper obviously picks up on, cuz he tips Hawkeye a very knowing look when Peg starts talking about the injustice of the government mandated redlined neighborhoods in San Francisco.

She's truly a woman after his own heart. And he's really looking forward to getting to know her better over the next few days.

But the dinner conversation mostly stays light. Funny stories from work, or joking flirtation with the women at their table. And he and Trapper fall back into their little double act from Korea pretty easily – just treading the line of overt camp and humorous insinuation, with Maggie and Kat playing along happily enough – and Peg, once she figures out the game. And she's very good at it – which makes sense, given that she's married to a man who makes terrible puns on an hourly basis.

All in all, it's like being at a better version of the 4077. One without death or bombs or rats or death. Plus, the food's a whole hell of a lot better than army food. Not a single powdered egg in sight – and Hawkeye's more than grateful. Though all the talking he's doing means he doesn't have very much time for eating and he has to pawn the rest of his plate off to Trapper. Who's never exactly been shy about eating Hawkeye's food, invited to or not.

Trapper takes the plate of mushed together potatoes and vegetables – stirred together by Hawkeye as a pretense that he was actually eating the food, rather than just playing with it – with a grimace. But he ain't one to waste food. And it means something to Hawkeye to give it to him.

“You're lucky I love you,” Trapper whispers into Hawkeye's ear.

He throws his head back in a laugh. As if Trapper has said some uproariously funny joke, rather than a declaration of love – framed as a tease or not. And it lets him slap his hand down on Trapper's thigh – totally accidentally, of course, and not at all an excuse to touch him intimately in public. It's a gesture that absolutely doesn't end in a gentle caress of said thigh. Or in Trapper slapping a hand to Hawkeye's shoulder in shared mirth – a hand that ends up with the thumb stroking gently at the nape of his neck.

Hawkeye feels something inside him settle at the gesture. At the reminder that Trapper's here with him and they're home and that Korea is just funny stories and distant memories to be rehashed with friends. He bumps his shoulder gently against Trapper's in appreciation and understanding. And then steals his dessert.

“You just did all this so you could eat all my cake while I finished your vegetables, you little sneak,” Trapper says with a mock glare. It's obvious he doesn't really mind – and he ought to be used to Hawkeye stealing his dessert by now, anyway.

But Hawkeye's feeling generous, so he holds out his fork. “Fine, you can have one bite.”

“Wow, thanks, Hawk. One whole bite of my own cake.”

But he takes it anyway.

And they probably can't get away with much more than that in such a public setting. BJ's already giving them a weird look. But for now, it's enough.


	9. ...and a Show

Dinner feels like it's dragging on forever. Part of that may be the requisite several courses – canapes, soup, fish, entree, salad, and cheese plates - plus aperitif and digestive. And that's not counting the wedding cake as the dessert course. And all of it must be eaten in tiny delicate bites so as to appear refined and ladylike.

Frankly, Marjory is ready to throw propriety to the winds halfway through the third course. All she wants is to dash her silverware to the floor and run off with Charles to the honeymoon suite. Or Timbuktu, she's not picky. Anything to get away from the constant barrage of insincere well-wishers and political maneuvering.

But that's rather the whole point of the evening, so she will bear it with as much grace as she is able. And Charles is certainly in his element – powerful and cuttingly condescending and so completely the scion of American aristocracy. It makes Marjory laugh, it really does, to imagine just what the cowed and condescended wedding guests would say if they could see that Charles has his knee pressed against Marjory's under the table. If they knew just how kind and doting and _sweet_ he can be. They'd all be shocked – and none more so than Charles's grandmother, who's watching over the wedding guests as they speak with the head table like a queen deigning to entertain petitioners. Cold and callous and utterly unsuaded by their pleas for mercy.

Though in all fairness to her, most of the guests attempting to curry favor are making a rather poor showing. Offerings of money and social connections means very little to a Winchester or an Oakes. They have both in spades – certainly more than a mere relatively impoverished offshoot of the Vanderbilt family. But custom dictates both sides play this game. They can no more refuse to petition the family than Charles can refuse to hear them out.

But all of this means that dinner takes several hours. And is almost interminably boring throughout.

Marjory can see that the back table, where all of the fun people are gathered, have similarly taken to rotating places throughout dinner so they can use the meal for a presumably much more enjoyable type of socializing. The focal point of the maneuvering appears to be Hawkeye – and she'll have to schedule a gossip session with Honoria, conveniently seated next to him, to pick up all the scuttlebutt once her honeymoon is over. Whatever the MASH contingent comes up with in the way of salacious gossip is bound to be infinitely more interesting than whatever one of the silver-spoon-set's mistress or polo pony or whatever has done now.

And Charles clearly agrees - Marjory can tell just how eager he is to join his friends at their table. But they must stand strong. Must endure.

She squeezes his hand surreptitiously in comfort. It can't be much longer now. They're bringing out the coffee and brandy and cigars. And then they'll have a few minutes to themselves before the room is cleared for dancing. They ought to be able to sneak away out of the spotlight then.

* * *

After dinner – and what appear to be obligatory stops at some of the more prestigious tables – Charles and Marjory come join the MASH table. And Trapper can see why they'd wanna join the unwashed masses. It seems like they're having a whole hell of a lot more fun than the stuffed shirts focused on propriety or whatever. And as much as Charles likes to pretend he's all proper – with a stiff upper lip and a heart made of stone - he really ain't.

And Trapper figures Charles oughtta have a good time on his own goddamn wedding day of all days. So he's happy enough to wave him over to join their Korean reminiscences – even if he's heard all of Charles's stories about eighty times by now. It's worth sitting through them again if it makes Charles look a little less like his public facade.

Plus, it gives him a chance to congratulate the other half of the happy couple. And maybe rib Charles a little about marrying up - cuz there ain't no way he's anywhere close to Marjory's league. And by Charles's blushing besottment, he knows it too.

And it's nice to chat with him for a bit. But they just saw each other and there's other fellas from further away who ain't seen him as recently wanting to say their own congratulations. So Trapper kinda backs off from the crowd, pulling Hawkeye along with him.

Cuz honestly? It's a lot. A lot of people, a lot of half-strangers – the partners of fellas stationed at the 4077 or people who'd only drifted through for a day or two, not permanent assignments, not part of the regular crowd. People who've all heard the legend of the famous Hawkeye Pierce and want a glimpse of the man. Want to crowd around and touch him like he's some kinda reliquary instead of a human being.

And Hawk's starting to look pretty run ragged at all the being at the center of attention-ness. All the feeling like he's gotta entertain people, be who the stories have made him out to be. So Trapper starts looking for an exit. And there – there's a door to the veranda right off the ballroom. Perfect.

“Hey, Hawk, I'm gonna step out for a smoke. Care to join me?”

The speed at which Hawkeye takes his arm and says, “Lay on, Macduff!” makes Trapper sure this was the right call. And he can't say he's too upset about a little alone time with Hawkeye, either.

* * *

“If I have to mmm hear one more mm question mmmm about when me and Margaret mmm me and Margaret are getting hitched mmmm oh Trap! I'm going to absolutely lose it!”

Trapper moves his kisses to Hawkeye's neck. He's talking too much right now to make his mouth a good target. And kissing him under the jaw usually gets him to cut out the griping pretty quick.

“No hickies, Trap! I mean it!”

Though maybe not in this case.

“Well, us coming out here alone and you coming back in with love bites would probably stop the questions about why the two of you ain't married yet.”

He licks over the spot he'd previously been trying to bite.

“But I promise I won't do anything to get us arrested.”

“It probably wouldn't work anyway,” Hawkeye says through a gasp. “They'd just think Margaret had snuck out here somehow.”

“Might be nice to have such an iron-clad beard. We could get away with a whole hell of a lot with Maggie as a built in alibi.” After all, that'd been the impetus behind them both chasing nurses so hard back in Korea. Part actual enjoyment – at least on Trapper's end, if not so much on Hawkeye's - part competition, and part cover.

But Trapper doesn't want to spend his limited time alone with Hawkeye thinking about that, so he goes back to mapping his skin with his mouth.

And gets pushed away when Hawkeye clutches a dramatic hand to his chest. “Trapper! How _dare_ you suggest we move to Jersey! I absolutely refuse to live further south than Brooklyn.”

“You're such a snob, Hawk,” Trapper says, leaning back in to press another kiss into his skin. “But I guess you're right that Margaret wouldn't wanna leave off bossing around her nursing staff and move up north with us either.”

“So I guess we're stuck as bachelors, then.”

“Guess so.” Trapper kisses Hawkeye deep and full on the mouth. And they stay like that for a while, Hawk finally settled enough to sink into it.

Then Trapper pulls back a little and lights a cigar - since that's their whole cover for this little assignation – pulling on it just enough to light it. He needs all the air in his lungs to kiss Hawkeye.

Eventually, they hear the door to the veranda scrape open and Trapper puts some space between himself and Hawkeye. Who nearly undoes his efforts when he takes the cigar from Trapper's loose grip, wraps his lips around it, and takes a drag that Trapper feels in his dick.

“You're a fucking menace,” he growls, before taking the cigar away to prevent any further teasing.

* * *

BJ loses track of Hawkeye somewhere in the confusion of backslapping and well-wishes surrounding Charles and Marjory. And, noticeably, Trapper's gone as well.

And it's not that his frantic search for Hawkeye has anything to do with imagining what the two of them are doing by themselves, away from the party. It's just that BJ wants a chance to talk to Hawkeye away from the crowd of other wedding guests, that's all. His search is completely justified and not at all blown out of proportion.

When BJ finally finds Hawkeye, he's out on the veranda. And he _is_ with Trapper.

They're standing in the lee of the building and Trapper seems to be acting as some form of windbreak for Hawkeye, practically looming over Hawkeye as he lounges against the wall. And it _does_ something to BJ to see them like that.

Hawkeye's got a cigar in his mouth and he takes a long, slow drag. Then Trapper leans even further into his space and says something BJ can't quite hear but that ends in a growl. And then he's pulling the cigar from Hawkeye's mouth and taking a drag himself.

BJ is definitely interrupting. And he feels a little bit bad about it – but he really does want a chance to talk to Hawkeye – and just Hawkeye. And this seems like his best shot at it. If he can get Trapper to leave, that is.

“Hey, Hawkeye, can I talk to you for a minute?” BJ asks. As if all of this is normal and he isn't interrupting an obviously intimate moment.

Hawkeye just stays where he is, lounging against the wall, completely relaxed, and looks expectantly at him. And Trapper makes no move to move away from Hawkeye, either.

“Alone.” And that maybe comes out ruder than he'd intended. But if it works, BJ isn't going to exactly split hairs over the etiquette of horning in on his crush's elicit relationship.

“Figure I'm just about done out here anyway,” Trapper says after a beat of silent communication between himself and Hawkeye – which BJ has been seeing a little more of than he'd like tonight, if he's being honest.

And then Trapper stubs his cigar out on the wall next to Hawkeye's head. He's leaning in again, bracketing Hawkeye with his arm and BJ is. BJ is...

And then Trapper's pulling away, thank God, and saying, “I'll go see if Kat has an opening on her dance card.”

“Save a slot for me, will you?”

“You've always got a slot on my dance card, Hawk,” Trapper says with a wink.

BJ knows he's just joking. But. _But what if he isn't_.

He puts that out of his mind and just enjoys having Hawkeye all to himself for a while. And it's almost like being back in Korea together. They're on the same wavelength, practically finishing each other's sentences, full of inside jokes. And BJ thinks that maybe, just maybe, he can tell Hawkeye how he feels – all of how he feels.

But then BJ has to open his big fat mouth about Trapper.

* * *

When Trapper gets back inside, the band is just finishing tuning up and he gets to watch Charles and Marjory sweep across the floor in an elegant waltz. And it ain't really his favorite way to dance, but there's no denying they look real happy dancing like that together and he's glad he gets to see it. Especially cuz he missed the wedding ceremony. This feels like maybe almost as meaningful as witnessing the vows. Certainly more meaningful than the Godawful speeches from earlier.

And then there's all the other dances between different members of the wedding party, which kinda ruins that whole intimacy and tenderness deal. Especially the truly awkward looking dance between the bridesmaids and groomsmen – well, awkward on the part of Honoria's date, who seems to deeply regret whatever life choices led to him having to dance with the groom's drunk sister - who appears to be trying to drag him into a foxtrot rather than a waltz. But at least there's some entertainment value there.

And honestly, that seems like a pretty good idea, the foxtrot thing. So Trapper has a few dances with Maggie and Kat that are nice and sedate and in three-quarter time. But when Honoria stumbles back over, the two of them manage a pretty decent swing rhythm over top of the orchestral music. Which spurs other couples to try the same thing.

Letta and her husband show off an excellent Charleston – and Radar and Patricia are doing _something_ that is very obviously not a waltz. Must be some new craze all the kids are into.

Trapper wishes Hawkeye were here, cuz he'd love this. And he'd prolly try and put a lindy to the slow waltzes, which is bound to be worth seeing. But he's still shooting the shit with BJ outside, so Trapper just pulls Donna out onto the dance floor. And she's game to get tossed around a little, so that's fun.

“Not feeling like hotfooting it with the rest of the youngsters, Padre?”

Francis smiles up at Colonel and Mrs. Potter as they make their way off the dance floor – which has grown rather crowded and frenetic of late.

“I'm afraid that attending the seminary doesn't keep one up to date on the latest dance hall crazes very well.”

Sherm laughs. “No, I guess it wouldn't. And they're sure pulling out all the stops – I haven't seen dancing like this since VE day in Paris.”

“Well, we're not exactly the dance hall crowd ourselves anymore either, dear,” his wife reminds him.

Sherm harrumphs in grudging agreement. “Getting old's the damnedest thing – pardon my French, Padre. Half the time I feel like a damn newlywed, just setting up house with the missus. And then I look in the mirror and I ask myself when I got so Goddamn old. Again, pardon my French.”

Francis just waves his apologies away. “I've certainly heard worse language than that, Colonel. I was at the front, after all.”

“I'm sure you did.” Colonel Potter laughs. “I don't envy you having to hear confession for this bunch.” He gestures to encompass the dance floor. Which is filled with several couples dancing quite close together indeed.

“Let's just say that my life has gotten significantly quieter since I left Korea.”

Not that he actually heard many confessions while at the 4077 – not official ones, anyway. Sure, there was always the occasional soldier passing through the hospital wanting to unburden himself before he went back home or back to the front. Or Catholic members of the MASH unit who would confess to months worth of sins all in one go, in order to receive the Eucharist at Easter or Christmas mass. But most of the confessions Francis heard were closer to conversations. Conversations full of deep seated fears and guilt and longing and grief, but conversations. Without the trappings of the confessional or the stole or the traditional forms of penance.

Because the majority of his flock hadn't been Catholic, and some hadn't even been Christian. And it was his job to administer over them all in whatever way they needed – his own personal theology be damned. It was his job to _help_ them.

But the Philadelphia diocese doesn't quite see things that way. He isn't there to help, he's there to administer – and that's it. He's there to tally up all of his congregation's sins and punish their trespasses. He's there to uphold the might of the Church – and therefore the almighty God – before all else.

So it's just as well that Francis has been mostly doing youth outreach, these days.

Most of the young men he coaches simply want someone to listen to them. To hear their problems without judgment. To feel like they matter, in the vast scheme of the universe – that they are seen in the eyes of God.

And Francis may not hear so well anymore, but he's able to do this one small thing. Just as he was able to do it for his flock in Korea. Who have all managed to come home – mostly safe and mostly whole – and about as well as anyone could be after experiencing what they'd all gone through together.

“Do you ever miss it? Korea, I mean.”

“That's a hell of a question, Padre.” Sherm sighs. “I've been through three wars and each one was worse than the one before. But Korea – getting to know all the folks at the 4077 – that was almost worth it. Worth the mud and the blood and the shi- the crap. Worth being away from my wife and kids and grandkid. Almost.”

Sherman looks out at the dance floor again. At all the smiling, laughing kids - who managed to make it home, who've managed to be _happy_.

“So I don't really miss Korea all that much, but I sure did miss this.”

Francis nods in understanding and they sit together in silence that's something akin to communion.

* * *

Hawkeye comes back inside to find that the 4077 has caused a whole pile of chaos and consternation – and he's missed being at the heart of it!

But it looks like the little dance party that's sprung up in his absence is still going strong. They've attracted a bit of a crowd, too – mostly bored kids and all the MASH guys not busy dancing with their own dates – all standing around the dancing couples in a loose circle. It looks a little bit like an exhibition and Hawkeye can see that Trapper is showing off some of the fancier steps he knows while dancing with Kat. And it looks like he's having a pretty good time – but Hawkeye's willing to bet neither of them would mind too much if he cuts in. And since BJ's run off to dance with Peg, well, there's not much point in him standing around on the sidelines.

“How'd it go, dear?” Peg whispers into BJ's chest as they waltz together. “Did you tell him?”

BJ sighs. “I wanted to, I really did, Peggy. And I tried. But I made the mistake of mentioning Trapper - and then Hawkeye was too busy gushing on about him to listen to anything I had to say.”

He looks over to where Hawkeye and Trapper are giving the kids who've congregated around their little group swing dancing lessons – with Hawkeye focusing on footwork, and Trapper throwing the kids around like grinning, giggling sacks of potatoes.

“And I – I couldn't just stand there listening to that. Not without doing or saying something stupid.” Not without wrecking his own chances of Hawkeye hearing him out. His own chances with Hawkeye.

“Well, I'm glad you didn't put your foot in it,” Peg says matter-of-factly. “And I'm sure you'll have plenty of opportunities to talk about it later,” she adds in consolation.

They dance on in silence for a while.

“That's the thing, Peg – what if I don't? What if I can't?”

BJ glances over at Hawkeye again, who's now looking warmly, so warmly, at Trapper as he very seriously leads a little girl through a slowed-down Charleston. He looks fucking besotted.

“It's not like me telling him will change anything.”

It's pretty obvious that Hawkeye isn't going to hear BJ's confession and come rushing into his arms. It's obvious that, for whatever reason, the barrel of commitment issues that is Hawkeye Pierce loves Trapper – has chosen to spend his life with Trapper.

And maybe, BJ consoles himself, it's just a case of Trapper getting there first. Staking his claim. Because BJ still doesn't understand what it is Hawk sees in the guy, what it is Trapper can offer him that BJ can't offer more of or better or.

He shakes his head to dispel that train of thought. Because that way lies madness. And he's been trying not to be so petulant about this.

And Peg's giving him a _look_.

“I'll try to find a chance to tell him as soon as I can.”

Peg nods. “That's all I ask – that you try.” She moves her hand off his shoulder to cup his neck. “Now how bout you stop thinking on Hawkeye and show your wife a good time?”

BJ pulls her even closer – till she's practically plastered to his front – and does his best to put Hawkeye out of his mind. But it's not easy. Not when Hawkeye is so bright and shining and right there, head thrown back in joyous laughter. And so, so beautiful.

Him and Hawkeye are making a pretty good showing of teaching dance moves to all the kids who've been let run loose by their rich snob parents – parents too busy with squabbling and grandstanding and standing around drinking champagne to look after their own damn kids – and so used to servants, prolly, that they don't even think that it could be their responsibility.

And Trapper don't mind doing it, really. He likes kids, and it ain't their fault their parents can't be bothered with 'em. It's pretty fun, even, once he convinces the kids they gotta behave like decent human beings and wait their turns or he ain't gonna teach 'em. So, Trapper don't mind at all what his evening's turned into.

But Trapper knows Hawkeye – better than he knows himself sometimes. And he can see that mischief's brewing, can see it in his eyes.

So he ain't surprised when Hawkeye starts making noise about this being fun and all but he really wants to dance the lindy sometime tonight. And he starts making an exaggerated show of looking around for a dance partner. And Trapper just knows what's gonna come next in this little production Hawk's putting on.

“Does anyone here know the lindy hop? Anyone at all?” Hawkeye looks pointedly around the crowd, practically daring them to come forward.

Next to him, Trapper sighs resignedly – though he really don't mind all that much, if he's being honest – and raises his hand.

And Hawkeye starts in on the next act of the pageant. “Anyone other than Trapper? A woman, maybe? A woman of the female persuasion?”

No one says anything. And Trapper makes eye contact with Letta, who most definitely knows the lindy, he's sure of it. But she just winks at him and stays silent.

“Looks like you're outta luck there, Hawk,” Trapper says with a commiserating hand on his shoulder.

“I know. I was really looking forward to it, but I guess that's just how it goes.”

And Hawk looks at their audience with sad puppy-dog eyes, a cue for the next act to start. Cuz they need someone else to step forward for the next part of this little play or it won't look right.

Max takes the cue – and she always was quick on the uptake when it came to schemes and practical jokes. Always willing to help out a friend.

“Nah, c'mon Hawkeye. You talked it up all the time in Korea – how good you were at the lindy. And now you're gonna wiggle outta showing us again? We ain't even being shelled.” Max takes a breath so the next line has maximum impact. “I think it's just that you ain't even all that good.”

And that – that's perfect.

Making it a challenge. Making it so that Hawkeye loses face if he doesn't do it. Making it so that it plays right into the competitiveness of American masculinity.

And then Charles – who'd wandered over sometime during the dance lessons, apparently – makes it even more iron-clad.

“Yes, Hawkeye. Show us your prodigious skill on the dancefloor that I've heard so much about – and have yet to see in person. If you're not bluffing, that is.”

And that seals the deal.

“Why Charles, you know I could never refuse your oh-so-reasonable request. And certainly not on your wedding day!” Hawkeye grins up at Trapper, full of delight and mischief and tenderness. And then he holds out his hand, like some kinda gentleman or something. “May I have the honor of this dance?”

And Trapper takes his hand in kind, fluttering his eyelashes and acting like a real blushing belle – just really playing up the farce of it. The joke of two guys dancing together. The joke of it being Hawkeye leading.

Cuz then, they ain't looking close enough to see how Trapper leans into it. Just how tender Hawkeye's hand is on the small of his back when they come together. Just how well the two of them fit.

And the lindy's a good choice for this kinda thing. They ain't dancing too close together – most of the steps involve them flinging themselves away from each other, orbiting their joined hands, before crashing briefly together for a moment before being thrown apart again. And the pace is fast, frenetic, not at all romantic. Not visibly intimate.

Though Trapper doesn't know how it couldn't be intimate, not when it's Hawkeye, not when it's the two of them together.

The trust it takes – the soul-deep knowing of each other it takes – for them to switch who's leading in the middle of a step and not lose the thread of the dance. For them to part with Hawkeye leading and join back together with Trapper in charge, cuz he can toss Hawkeye around a little, show off some of their fancier steps. Cuz he can be the steady anchor for Hawkeye when he goes flying through the air in joyful abandon. Cuz he can be there to catch Hawkeye when he comes back around. Trapper doesn't know that there's anything much more intimate than that.

This. This was what he wanted, what he needed. The feel of Trapper's strong arms and steady hands. The knowledge that he's there to guide Hawkeye through the steps – and that he won't let him stumble. The feeling of freedom as he flies across the dancefloor, knowing Trapper will be there to catch him as he descends back to earth.

Hawkeye feels like his face is going to split open, his smile's so wide.

And he would love to dance with Trapper the rest of the night. To revel in that feeling until the end of time. But eventually the band ends their current song and they have to stop. Because they can get away with one song – already longer than he'd usually have when dancing the lindy, due to the slow tempo of the waltzes the band keeps playing – but two songs would be out of the question.

So the song comes to an end and he and Trapper separate. With plenty of backslapping and joking around and a general air of it all just being one big joke. And Hawkeye sketches an elaborate bow at the raucously cheering crowd of kids and MASH vets – and even some of the Back Bay brigade, who have deigned to stop and watch the show, are applauding genteelly.

“Thank you, thank you, you're too kind. Really.”

And Trapper's standing next to him, a friendly hand clapped to his shoulder. A hand Hawkeye can subtly lean into, press himself against. Use to shore himself up as he comes down from the adrenaline rush of the dance.

“Really, thank you. We're here all week.” Hawkeye grins at Trapper. “Or the rest of our natural lives, whichever comes first.”

“I don't think I can afford to put us up at this hotel for the rest of our lives, Hawk. Might not wanna tell 'em that.”

Trapper has started steering them off the dancefloor, through the crowd, and over to their table. So one of the snobs overhears that comment and laughs meanly. And Hawkeye can feel Trapper tense where he's still got an arm slung over Hawkeye's shoulders.

“Hmm, that's true. But surely you can afford to buy me a club soda.” Hawkeye fans himself dramatically with a hand. “I'm parched.”

“Sure, Hawk. I think I can swing that.”

Trapper relaxes slightly, with a task to fulfill and an excuse to get out of there. So Hawkeye relaxes too, and turns to chat with the Padre and the rest of the MASH folks. Because everyone seem to have taken Hawkeye sitting down as the official signal to end their own dancing and start congregating around the table.

And part of him hates being the social center of the 4077 again. Hates being pushed back into the role that'd driven him literally insane back in Korea.

But part of him is glad because it means he can deflect all of the attention off Trapper and onto himself.

And he isn't worried about getting lost again. Not with Sidney sitting across from him and BJ at his elbow and Trapper across the room. Not with Father Mulcahy smiling at him in gentle understanding and suggesting a poker game as he brings out a deck of cards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just as a heads up, I've started crossposting this fic and my other works to angryhausfrau-writes.tumblr.com if you'd rather read the story there.


	10. Come Together, Together As One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, stuff happening on the BJ front (in more ways than one).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains explicit sex. Also, Hawkeye and Trapper fantasizing about BJ and Hawkeye having sex. If any of that is not for you, skip the last section, which starts with "What the hell's gotten into you, Hawkeye?" Or skip directly to that point - that's where the sex starts.

Trapper comes back with both Hawkeye's requested club soda and a turkey sandwich.

At Hawkeye's questioning eyebrow, he says, “You oughtta get something in you tonight that ain't just cake and soda pop, Hawk.”

Hawkeye gives him a look.

“Fine, smart guy. You oughtta eat something that ain't just cake and soda pop.”

He lays the food down in front of Hawkeye, before plopping down in an open seat a ways down the table. And Hawkeye can hear him muttering under his breath about what a pain in Trapper's ass he is even from all the way over there, and Hawkeye smiles in a way that's probably stupidly sappy.

Trapper finds himself sitting next to the former Colonel Potter – Hawkeye's curmudgeonly old CO from after... From after Trapper left, anyway.

And it looks like Trapper's reputation proceeds him, cuz he gets greeted with a firm handshake and a, “Oh, so you're the infamous Trapper John. Caused me a hell of a lot of trouble during my command.”

And with the way Potter's looking at Hawkeye and BJ down the table – and from the stories Hawkeye's told – Trapper can guess exactly what kinda trouble he's talking about. But he sure as hell ain't gonna admit to anything, so deflect it is.

“Yeah, I'm sure all the nurses were inconsolable after I left.”

“Hah!” Is Margaret's response to that statement.

“Love you too, Maggie,” Trapper says, blowing her a kiss.

“As if I'd ever love you! You weren't half so good as you thought you were,” Margaret snipes back.

Trapper leans back in his chair, hands behind his head in a pose of total, expansive cocksuredness. “Well, I thought I was excellent so that's still pretty damn good.”

Potter laughs, so at least they're off the more dangerous topic.

And Max chimes in with, “Ginger sure seemed sad you left. She went home just a little after you did, Trap.”

Trapper shakes his head in mock sadness. “Pining after her dance partner, no doubt. Not that what we did together could really be called dancing.”

“More like shuffling vaguely upright,” Margaret adds.

Potter laughs. “That's surprising after the fancy footwork you just showed off.”

“Well, I was considerably more pickled back then,” Trapper admits. “I was less leading her around the dancefloor and more propping myself up with her.” His tone turns reminiscent. “But what a way to remain upright.”

“Not that you wouldn't have preferred to get horizontal with her,” Max ribs. And yeah, ok. Fair enough.

But before they can devolve into the sort of ribald wordplay that'd filled their friendship in Korea, Peg speaks up. “You don't drink anymore, Trapper?” And there's something in the way she's waiting on his answer that makes him answer honestly.

“I didn't quit cold turkey, not like Hawkeye. But, uh, I had an ulcer back in Korea. So I stopped hitting the sauce as hard – other than the couple days before I shipped home.”

Peg nods at that and Trapper keeps on with the story. “They actually thought I might get sent home with the ulcer, but it turns out I'da just been shipped to Tokyo to recover and then back out to some other MASH unit. So I stayed at the 4077 till I got better. Probably the most peaceful two weeks I ever had in Korea – they didn't let Frank come closer than a hundred feet from me.”

Margaret laughs. “That and you were on so many tranquilizers, you were barely awake for any of it. I doubt even Frank would've disturbed you, the haze you were in.”

“Kept calling me Louise when I brought you dinner,” Max adds. “And you kept trying to stick your hand up my skirt.”

“In all fairness to me, you and Louise both own the same green dress,” Trapper points out. “It was an honest mistake.”

“Who's Louise?” Peg asks.

“My ex-wife.”

And the Padre must have caught that – that or Hawkeye's translating - cuz he looks up from his hand of cards, expression sympathetic. “You're divorced, Trapper?” The “And excommunicated” is implied through the Padre's gaze – but he doesn't seem judgmental about it, not like his actual priest had been when that whole deal had all come out.

“Yep, I'm batting for the other team now,” Trapper says, completely innocently. And Sidney snorts his drink out of his nose a few seats down the table. “The girls are Episcopalians now so I've been attending Protestant Mass on the weekends they're with me.”

Father Mulcahy laughs. “Ah yes, they would be rather more lenient on that topic, wouldn't they.”

“That and nothing else, unfortunately,” Trapper mutters.

But the comment is swept away by the official start of the poker game.

* * *

Charles plays one ceremonial hand of poker – wherein he loses a not unreasonable amount of money to the Father, largely thanks to Hawkeye, Trapper, Letta, and Margaret's machinations, he's sure – and, good deed for the month completed, he bows out. Because it is rather late at night and there are probably multiple people – Letta and her husband the most significant among them, at least in terms of Charles's personal regard – who want to go home to bed. And propriety dictates that no one can leave the wedding reception before the bride and groom. So it behooves himself and Marjory not to linger.

And then there's the fact that leaving the wedding reception as soon as possible – as soon as his social and political duty is done – means that he has more time to spend with Marjory. Time spent alone and in the honeymoon suite. Just the thought of it has him wanting to rush through the halls at a pace most unbecoming to a man of his age and stature.

But he manages to make it through the required rounds of good nights and congratulations with most of his dignity and poise intact. Though the constituents of the MASH table give him some rather knowing looks and there's quite a bit of ribald humor to their send off. Hawkeye in particular gives Charles a rather lecherous eyebrow waggle as he says goodnight.

And it's not as if they're wrong about what he and Marjory are running off to do. Hawkeye and BJ and several of the others know he's no blushing virgin – and neither is Marjory. They're both adults and men and women of the world and they've only held off on consummating their relationship due to the social scandal even a whiff of such impropriety would bring about – and the subsequent ruination of both of their families that would ultimately result.

Because Charles may not love or even like many of his blood relations – as born out by this very wedding – but it cannot be said that he does not know his duty.

And, as always, the fallout from such an impropriety would come down harder on Marjory than on himself, and he could never do that to her. So they haven't done anything more intimate than holding hand – when they can get away with it, that is. And they haven't done anything more sexual than a chaste peck on the lips at their engagement dinner.

So, by all rights, Charles should be nearly out of his mind with desire. And he does desire her, in all ways, body and soul. Particularly when Marjory emerges from the bathroom in this sort of ethereal white negligee that manages to look at once virginal and scandalous.

But Charles finds himself feeling _nervous_ of all things. Nervous in a way he hasn't felt around a beautiful woman in well over a decade.

And Marjory is clearly feeling some nerves as well, because she clasps her hands together a little awkwardly and says, “Well, here we are. Alone at last.”

Charles laughs. “I wouldn't be so sure about that. It wouldn't surprise me if Grandmama was standing outside the hotel room door, listening in, making sure we're doing our duty to the Winchester name.”

Marjory laughs too, and loses her tense posture. “Like they used to do for royalty. Well, thank goodness we overthrew the monarchy, then hmm? I don't think I'm quite that adventurous.”

“Oh? And just how adventurous are you?”

Marjory smiles at Charles, and comes forward to kiss him. “Why don't we find out?” They kiss again and then they're tumbling together onto the bed and it's wonderful – the best night of Charles's life.

But the best part, he thinks as he drifts off to sleep, is holding a sleeping Marjory safe in his arms and knowing that he gets to do this for the rest of their lives.

* * *

BJ sits at the poker table, but honestly he doesn't think he's taking any of the game in, can barely see what his cards are, ends up folding nearly every hand. Because he just can't concentrate on something so mundane and unimportant as cards. Not with Hawkeye sitting next to him - flushed and grinning and so, so happy. And all because of dancing with Trapper.

Sure, they'd couched it as all a big joke. But BJ knows it isn't a joke. Not with them looking at each other like that, holding each other like that, moving together like that.

Because that wasn't the dance of two people unsure of how to move together. That wasn't the dance of two people who'd never danced together before, carefully picking out the steps, and unsure of who was leading.

And hadn't that been a kicker. How easily Trapper had fallen into the woman's role. When it was always Hawkeye that joked about that kind of thing. It just doesn't make sense.

But one thing is clear to BJ – Hawkeye and Trapper have danced together before. Probably often, to be able to move together like that. And that begs the question, when had they started doing that? When Hawkeye moved back to Boston? _Korea?_

Whenever it had started, it hasn't ended yet, that's for sure. And BJ is still confused as to why Hawkeye wants this – wants Trapper – bad enough to put up with all the rest of his bullshit. Bad enough to actually commit to a relationship. But it's obvious that there are real feelings involved here, and on both sides.

BJ's not really sure how to feel about that, if he's being honest. Because on the one hand, he's glad that Hawkeye isn't being taken for a ride by Trapper. But on the other hand, what does that mean for him? What is there left for him when Hawkeye already has a relationship? Though given the way Trapper's been flirting with Max and some of the nurses all night, maybe they aren't exclusive.

Peg had tasked herself with finding that out, after BJ's botching of his conversation with Hawkeye earlier. And both she and Trapper have disappeared from the table, so BJ can only hope she comes back with news on that front soon. Though part of him doesn't want to know – doesn't want to have it all spelled out for him. Because while there's uncertainty, there's hope.

A couple hands into the poker game, Peg starts looking sideways at Trapper like she wants something from him but won't – or can't – just come out and say it. And it don't feel like the kinda look that's gonna get him in trouble, so he lets the Padre deal him out of the next hand and moves away from the epicenter of the game. And sure enough, Peg follows after him not even a full minute later.

“I feel like there's something you wanna ask me, Peg.”

She looks a little uncomfortable, and Trapper starts getting worried that it _is_ gonna be something to get him in trouble. So it's almost a relief when she blurts out, “I wanted to ask you about your divorce.”

Trapper laughs. “Oh, is that all?”

“Look, I'm sorry. I know it's none of my business. Forget I said anything.” Peg's looking real flustered, and Trapper sighs.

“It's ok, Peg. What did you wanna know?”

“Why, I guess. Why did you get a divorce? What made you say, this is the end of it – the end of my marriage?”

Trapper laughs a little ruefully. “That's one hell of a question. But I guess the best answer – the most complete answer - is that I changed. Korea changed me and I didn't know how to – how to reach out, I guess. Find what me and Louise still had in common, you know?”

Peg nods. “Korea changed BJ too.”

“Sometimes I think Korea changed just about everybody. Though sometimes in good ways – Charles is a lot less uptight for one.”

And he's trying to inject some levity here, but Peg's just staring down at her folded hands, lost in whatever she's thinking about.

“It wasn't. Um. It wasn't that you'd found someone else?” And now Peg's looking down the table, right at Hawkeye.

And shit. They must not be being subtle enough – not if Peg's noticing. Though it don't seem like she's gonna make trouble about it.

“Well, I won't deny that I slept around a bunch in Korea. But it was all just – I don't wanna say meaningless, cuz it did mean something. But I wasn't about to leave my wife over any of the people I slept with. Even when I loved them I wasn't – it wasn't long term. Just flings to say, 'Hey, I'm alive and this place is hell, but we can make it a little more bearable together for a while.' We were all gonna go back to our separate lives after the war was over and that was gonna be the end of it.”

Peg's still looking down the table, but now her gaze is fixed on her husband. “BJ... BJ found love in Korea, too.” And she's looking back at Hawkeye again. “And I don't think he's going to be able to just forget about it. That's not how he is.”

Ah, ok. That explains a few dozen things. Like why BJ's been such a dick to Trapper lately. And why he's been so single minded about wanting to spend time with Hawkeye.

And Peg obviously knows about it, and is ok with it - or at least not call the cops and file for divorce upset about it. So Trapper doesn't feel like he's revealing too much when he says, “Yeah, I wasn't very good at forgetting either.”

Peg stays quiet for a while, just looking down the table at her husband and Hawkeye and the two of them together. She's got a lot to think about.

But eventually the poker game winds down. So Peg goes to collect BJ – to talk all this through with him as much as for their goodnight phone call to Erin. And as she approaches, he looks up at her with such warmth and love, she can't even begin to imagine not loving him back just as fierce.

* * *

BJ comes back from the mandatory goodnight phone call with Erin to find the ballroom significantly emptier. Peg had elected to go to bed, and it looks like a lot of other guests had had the same idea. The only people left at the reception are a few old men too drunk to stand up and Hawkeye, Sidney, Klinger, Soon Li, and Trapper. Who's lounging tipped back in his chair with one muscular arm thrown over Klinger's shoulders – and the other thrown over Hawkeye's, surprise, surprise.

And everyone's laughing uproariously at something Klinger's saying, clearly having a great time. Until BJ comes in and then everyone just stops dead. Eyes wide, like deer in headlights.

They glance at one another, like they've been caught out at something. And then Hawkeye pats the chair next to his, gesturing for BJ to sit. And the conversation picks back up again.

“So you got the call about an emergency,” Trapper prompts Max to continue. “Then what?”

“Right. And I get Soon Li to close up and I rush over to her apartment. I'm scared to death, you know? I'm thinking – did someone break in, or call the cops on her, or hurt her, you know?”

Everyone nods.

And BJ feels like he's missing some essential context for this story. Like there's a meaning to this conversation that he doesn't have the references to understand. And it bothers him – but also he's enjoying sitting here next to Hawkeye and he's not going to ruin things by coming out and asking about it.

“So I get there and she's sitting in the middle of the living room, still in her work clothes, you know? Just sobbing into a pile of pink fabric. And it turns out she'd planned to go out that night, had this pink dress she was gonna wear to the bar. This huge tulle monstrosity – it'd take up a whole fucking subway car it was so big and frilly. And she'd set it out to air out or whatever and her cat had got at it – used it as a scratching post, just tore it to shreds.”

There's laughter and exclamations at this revelation. And it inspires Max to even greater dramatic heights.

“So I go “You said it was an emergency – this is your emergency?” And she goes “It _is_ an emergency! I have nothing to wear!” And I'm crying laughing cuz I was sure I was going to find her beat half to death or robbed or something – but she just wanted a damn tailor.”

“Did you manage to fix the dress?” Hawkeye asks, tears of laughter in his eyes.

Max laughs. “I did my best, but I'm no miracle worker, no matter what the Father said about me in Korea. Though I managed to at least make the tatters look intentional – and I made her a hat out of the scraps, which I think she still has, actually. So that turned out all right.”

“Max Klinger everyone!” Hawkeye exclaims. “The fourth branch of emergency services after police, fire, and ambulance.”

“Yeah, and I can promise you that's the last house call I'm ever making,” Max jokes.

And then quieter. “I was so, so scared of what I was gonna find. I'm not a doctor – what the hell could I have done for her, you know? I was so fucking scared.”

Trapper tucks Max further against his chest, and it surprises BJ. He didn't know they were close like that. Didn't know Trapper was capable of this kind of thing. But the two of them are practically cuddling at this point.

Max is pretty much speaking directly into Trapper's chest when she says, “You ever get scared like that Trapper?”

He sighs out a long breath. “Not scared exactly – but I got careful. Always looking for where that line is, what parts you can show and what you gotta hide so you don't get beat up.” Trapper shrugs. “But I'm pretty lucky in terms of how people see me – they ain't really looking for nothing.”

The room gets quiet for a minute after that.

Then Hawkeye speaks up. “I know what you mean about being scared, Max. I – Sidney knows this story, because I forgot it even happened till he made me remember – but I almost drowned as a kid. I was eight, nine years old and out in this boat with a friend and this was before I knew how to hide behind jokes, how to deflect – didn't know I needed to, you know?”

Again the nodding and the feeling of there being a context to this conversation that BJ doesn't really _get_.

“Anyway, he gets mad and pushes me into the water. I almost drown – but he pulls me out and says “Wow, it's a good thing I was there to save you.” And I just had to thank him. Thank him for saving my life even though he was the one who almost killed me – because what else is there to say? What other way does that end?”

There's another round of silent understanding.

Max takes Hawkeye's hand from across Trapper. “So what do we do?”

“What you and the rest of the women you know in Toledo and everyone at this table is doing,” Sidney says – expression serious. And BJ thinks that this must be what it's like to see him in a professional capacity. “You find each other and take care of each other.”

“Careful, Sidney, that sounds awful close to communism,” Hawkeye says.

And everyone laughs, even Max - though it's still slightly tearfully.

The tension is broken, but Max stays held in Trapper's arms, stays holding Hawkeye's hand. Taking comfort and giving it. Reveling in feeling safe and _understood_.

Max is clearly still shook up from earlier – not that Trapper can blame her. But she asks him to walk her and Soon Li up to their room.

He's more than happy to oblige, so they make like Max is drunk and needing to kinda hang off him and Soon Li so she gets to stay held by them. And the height differences prolly make it look pretty comical but if this is what she needs, then Trapper's more than happy to give it to her.

More than happy to hold her close once they get to the hotel room. To kiss her sweet and chaste on the mouth. To run his thumb across her cheek as tender as he knows how. Cuz he loves the hell outta her, even if it ain't like that no more.

And Soon Li gets it, thank God. Whispers “Thank you,” as she kisses him goodnight, soft and chaste and like some kinda benediction. And she's real nice about kicking him outta their hotel room so the two of them can go to bed together.

* * *

Trapper gets back from escorting Max and Soon Li to their room and settles back down at the table. And Hawkeye's all over him, as much as is possible in public, tucking his face into the join of Trapper's neck and breathing in shallow little pants and generally acting like he does when he's right at the edge but doesn't wanna go over it.

And it's just Sidney and BJ left paying any attention to them, so Trapper wraps his arms around him and rubs his back soothingly. Tries to ground him, keep him together while Trapper figures out what the hell happened while he was gone to cause this.

And Trapper catches BJ's eye from over Hawkeye's shoulder. BJ who's looking at Hawkeye like he wants to eat him alive. And given his own conversation with Peg earlier, that may not be too far off the mark.

And yeah, that'd do it for Hawkeye for sure. He's only been wanting BJ to fuck him since forever. God, you could cut the sexual tension with a knife.

Sidney's obviously reading the same thing as Trapper is, cuz he excuses himself off to bed pretty quick. And him and Hawkeye both kiss Sid goodnight – just a quick peck on the cheek, cuz they're in public, but it's another way to say that they're all here, all together, all understanding one another. Like how Trapper's kiss with Max had been.

And BJ's watching them as they do it and his gaze is so heavy, Trapper figures he prolly ain't so much as blinked in about five minutes. And Hawkeye's getting more and more worked up as BJ's watching him.

So Trapper says, “We prolly oughtta hit the hay as well.” He holds out a hand for BJ to shake. “Night, BJ. See you tomorrow.”

And he ain't all that surprised when BJ grips his hand perfunctorily and then spends two whole minutes staring into Hawkeye's eyes like he could drown in 'em. Before they finally give in to all that sexual tension and repressed longing and BJ wraps Hawkeye up in a smothering hug. He looks like he never wants to let go.

* * *

“What the hell's gotten into you, Hawkeye?” Trapper asks as soon as they're back in their hotel room. Like he doesn't know. “You were acting like you were gonna start humping my leg right there at the fucking table – in front of God and BJ.”

“That's – that's what's gotten into me, Trapper.” Hawkeye's tearing his clothes off like he can't get naked fast enough.

So Trapper starts stripping too, if a little less frantically. Yeah, he's pretty sure the direction their night's heading.

“BJ ain't been in you. Yet.”

Hawkeye whimpers. “He was looking at me, Trap. That whole time you were gone. He was _looking_ at me. I couldn't help it.”

Trapper comes up to him, presses himself against him. Presses kisses into his flushed skin.

“You're so fucking easy, Hawkeye. So ready to put out for any guy who looks twice at you.”

Hawkeye moans. He doesn't mean to be such a slut. It's just that BJ had been looking at him like he wanted to screw him into the goddamn table. And Hawkeye has wanted BJ to look at him like that for a long goddamn time.

Fortunately, Trapper seems to be on board with where this is going – wherever that is. He's naked and hard, at any rate, and still pressing little kisses into Hawkeye's face and neck while he stands there and shivers in anticipation.

Then Trapper's kissing him on the mouth, deep and dirty, and Hawkeye feels like his knees are going to give out. Trapper must notice, because he directs him towards the bed with a “C'mon, Hawk, let's get you taken care of,” and a ringing slap on his ass – and boy is Hawkeye glad that Margaret and Kat are otherwise engaged right now, cuz he is not going to be able to keep quiet, not if Trapper's gonna keep doing stuff like that.

They crawl into bed together, Trapper spooning up behind Hawkeye.

“You thinking about it?” Trapper whispers the question into Hawkeye's ear and he shivers at the sensation. “BJ fucking you, I mean. He's a tall drink of water, and you know I wouldn't mind.”

“Yeah, I'm thinking about it.” Hawkeye squirms against Trapper, nestling his cock against his ass – so damn close to where he really needs it. “I've been thinking about it for three goddamn years.”

Trapper presses even closer to Hawkeye. “You're thinking about being all spread out for BJ, naked and wanting. Just a blatant invitation for him to fuck you. Like you wanted him to do since that first day you met.”

“Yeah,” Hawkeye breathes out shakily. If he wasn't thinking about it before, he sure is now. Thinking about BJ coming into his hotel room to find Hawkeye slick and open and so obviously, desperately wanting.

Trapper gives Hawkeye's dick a teasing little stroke, just barely enough to feel – just enough to get him to pay attention to what Trapper's saying. “And you're such a little show-off, Hawkeye. I bet BJ's seen you naked before. Not much privacy in an army tent, is there? It's the perfect excuse for a little exhibitionism. Did you strip off in front of him? Let him get a good look at your cock - like how you paraded it in front of the entire fucking mess tent cuz what, you were bored? You were horny and wanted all those hungry eyes on you, seeing you, knowing what a fucking slut you are?”

Hawkeye moans. He can feel Trapper's eyes on him now. And he can imagine BJ's eyes on him – so hot and heavy and _fuck_.

Then Trapper moves his hands to Hawkeye's tits, fondles what little flesh is there.

“Interesting how your first move was to cover your pretty little tits instead of your cock. Like you wanted them to see you get hard at all the attention. And I bet BJ's seen you hard too – hard for him, even if he didn't know it. Your pretty little cock all red and hard and dripping in your fatigues cuz he looked at you just right with those big blue eyes.”

“Yeah,” Hawkeye pants. “Yeah. Used to have to sit cross-legged a lot. Took up knitting just so I wouldn't touch myself whenever he looked at me all sweet and earnest. Fuck.”

Trapper moves his hand back down to Hawkeye's cock, holds it loosely as Hawkeye ruts into his grip. It's so beautifully, perfectly almost enough.

“I bet you rubbed one out in the middle of the night, though. Thinking about him fucking you - hoping he was listening, hoping he was getting all worked up over you too, over all the pretty sounds you made. Hoping he'd come across the tent and fuck you raw.”

Hawkeye grinds back against Trapper, desperate for more. More skin, more friction, more of his deepest fantasies revealed in the most matter-of-fact tone. Like Trapper isn't flaying him open and leaving the raw parts of his desire so achingly bare.

“But BJ never fucked you,” Trapper continues on, relentless. “Despite how much of a fuckin display you made of yourself. He had too much self restraint. But when he sees you laying there, spread out for him like a invitation, all but begging him to fuck you - he ain't gonna be able to help himself.”

And fuck. The idea of that – of Hawkeye being blatant enough, desirable enough, that BJ can't keep himself contained anymore. Can't keep denying that this is what he wants. That's _hmmmm_.

Hawkeye's writhing in wordless desperate bliss. So Trapper keeps at the build up.

“He ain't gonna be able to keep from touching you” - Trapper lays a kiss just below Hawkeye's ear - “kissing you” - another kiss on the back of his neck - “mapping out all the spots that make you melt.” - a bruise sucked under Hawkeye's jaw - “I bet he'd be real gentle with you. Tender.”

Hawkeye moans again. And he's touching himself now. Just little fluttering passes of his hands over his chest and stomach and thighs – enough to tease and nothing else. It's all he can stand right now.

“And BJ'd probably be a little shy. He's never done this before, you'd have to show him what to do. How to give you what you need.”

Trapper's dick presses more firmly against Hawkeye, grinding like he can get inside him just by wishing. And Hawkeye wants it so fucking bad. He pushes back, revels in the pressure.

“It wouldn't be like with you, Trap,” Hawkeye manages to gasp out. “You knew right away. You knew how to take me apart, how to fuck me so deep and perfect.” He pants a breath. “But BJ. BJ'd have to learn – I'd have to teach him.”

Trapper tightens his grip on Hawkeye's dick, really gives him something to fuck into. “You'd have to teach him how to open you up, stretch you open with those long, slick fingers. First one, then two, then three stretching you wide, so wide. Getting you ready to take his big, hard cock.”

Hawkeye ruts desperately into Trapper's fist.

“What kinda position do you think he'd want? Probably face to face, huh.” BJ seems like the type to stare soulfully into his lover's eyes. “You'd get a real nice view of all that muscle, Hawk. Those big strong arms framing you. That big strong chest pressing down on you, keeping you in place.”

Hawkeye laughs breathlessly. “You know, I used to dream of smothering myself in that chest. What a way to go...”

“All that muscle, all that strength – he'd prolly be worried about being too rough with you. Cuz he don't know how sweet and easy you take it, how deep you need to feel him in you.”

“Fuck,” Hawkeye moans. “ _Fuck_ , Trapper, please -”

Trapper grabs Hawkeye by the hips, pulls him more firmly against his own aching cock.

“So you'd have to push him down. Ride him. Show him what it takes to make you scream.”

Hawkeye's hips jerk against Trapper's. Fuck. He wants that so bad.

“You'd feel so good around him, working his cock. BJ'd start to thrust up against you, fuck you for real. Wouldn't be able to help himself-”

“And... and it would get to be too much. He'd lose that iron control, push me down, and _take_ me.” Hawkeye's really working his hips now, fucking desperately into Trapper's hand.

Trapper figures they're coming up on the climax pretty quick.

“BJ'd flip you over, lay you out on your back. Hold you down with those strong arms. Fuck you deep and hard. You'd feel every single inch of him. And you wouldn't be able to do nothing but lay there begging for more as you're split open on his dick.”

Hawkeye sounds like he's right on the edge, making desperate broken little gasps. So Trapper swipes his thumb at the head of Hawkeye's cock, curls his hand to catch his release.

“And then he'd hold you in place as he comes deep, deep inside you.”

But Hawkeye doesn't come. Instead, he grips himself hard around the base of his cock, his hips stuttering violently before stilling.

“But I'd still be hard,” Hawkeye pants. “Hard and desperate and right on the edge.”

Oh, so it's _this_ game now. It makes sense what with how he was acting earlier. Trapper moves his arm to brace against Hawkeye's heaving chest – holding him, grounding him.

“Yeah? Your pretty cock so desperate, so hard it hurts?”

Hawkeye nods violently, still clutching at the base of his dick. It aches so fucking sweet. He wants it to last forever.

“Dripping all over your belly and smearing slick on his abs.”

Hawkeye moans. “Please -”

“I bet BJ wouldn't just leave you like that, though. He'd wanna take care of you – make you feel as good as you made him feel.”

Hawkeye starts pulling at his cock. He can't take it anymore. It's too good, Trapper's too good. Giving him everything he didn't know he wanted. Everything he didn't dare dream about.

“And you'd look so pretty all desperate and begging. He couldn't help but wanna get his hands on you. Or maybe his mouth...”

Hawkeye's hand speeds up. Fuck. The idea of that – of BJ doing that for him. _Fuck_.

“He'd wanna lick and suck and taste you. Lick right at the head of your cock where you're so wet you're _dripping_.”

Hawkeye swipes a thumb at the slit and his hips jerk. Oh, God. He _is_ dripping. All over himself and the bedspread. He'd be embarrassed if it wasn't so hot.

Hawkeye's really going for it now and Trapper tightens his hold, keeps him still. “BJ'd wanna get his mouth on you – on all of you. Want to make you fall apart. But he wouldn't know what to do.”

Hawkeye works his cock faster. God, he's so fucking close. Just needs that final push over the edge. And Trapper's still talking – low and dirty and so, so perfect.

“So you'd have to show him, Hawk. Show him how to open his throat and swallow you all the way down -”

It's all too much. Hawkeye makes a hitched little gasp and falls apart in Trapper's arms.

* * *

Once he's recovered enough to talk, Hawkeye says, “Wow, Trap. I didn't know you had it in you.”

It's not the first fantasy scenario they've spun out between the two of them, but Trapper thinks he's done a pretty good job of it. So he lets himself sound a little smug when he says, “Glad you liked it. I had a little more about you putting your hand around his throat and feeling your cock as you fucked him and him looking up at you with those big baby blues...”

“Fuck. Stop it. I'm too old to get it up again right away.” Then Hawkeye's tone turns considering. “Although... if you wanted to make this little fantasy scenario a threesome, I could be convinced to walk things back a little. Maybe have me give BJ a practical demonstration on how to suck dick using a willing participant from our studio audience.” Hawkeye reaches behind himself and gropes at Trapper's crotch.

Trapper laughs. “Not saying I don't wanna get off. But I figure this oughtta stay just between you and BJ – he don't seem like the type to want an audience.”

“Fine,” Hawkeye pouts. “But I'm still going to blow you.”

And then Hawkeye's mouth is on him and Trapper loses track of whatever stupid wisecrack he was gonna make.


	11. Pas de Deux

Peg comes down to breakfast – well it's more like brunch at this point - that next morning sans BJ. He'd stumbled in quite late last night. Or early this morning, if you want to split hairs. And even without a night of partying under his belt, he likes to sleep in.

So Peg has resigned herself to eating alone and then maybe reading the newspaper in the lovely little armchair next to the bay window in their hotel room. But then she spies Hawkeye and Trapper sitting at one of the little breakfast tables in the lobby.

Trapper takes the bite of French toast Hawkeye offers off his fork. “It's not as good as your dad's,” he says, after some consideration. “But it's still pretty good. Here, try my eggs Benedict.” Trapper holds out his own fork.

“Mmmm, that is good, Trap. I should have ordered something savory.”

“Here, you can have my sausage.” Trapper tips them onto Hawkeye's plate with a leer.

A leer Hawkeye returns.

“Am I interrupting if I join you gentlemen?” Peg asks. She'll butt out if they want, but she hopes they won't want her to. It's no fun to eat alone.

“Peg! Please, sit down.” Hawkeye's greeting is enthusiastic, and Trapper is getting up to pull out a chair for her.

“Are Margaret and Kat joining us? Or are they still sleeping in?”

Trapper and Hawkeye share a glance.

“The gals are off at some fancy spa deal with Honoria,” Trapper supplies. And Peg gets the feeling that that's only part of the story. But she won't pry into their private affairs.

“Speaking of plus ones, is BJ going to be joining us?”

“Oh, no,” Peg says with a laugh. “He's still recovering from last night – I don't expect to see him till at least one.”

“He always did like to sleep in on the weekends,” Hawkeye comments.

“And the week days too, I'm sure,” Peg chimes in.

“Yeah, those too. BJ used to read me the riot act every day for waking him up for morning rounds. Finally, Potter switched him to afternoon rounds just to get some peace around the place.”

Hawkeye pauses.

“Of course, that meant Charles had morning rounds, and he bellyached plenty for two people.”

“Charles? Complaining about something?” Trapper asks, pretending shock. “Never.”

Hawkeye laughs. “You're lucky you didn't know him back then, Trap. He's mellowed a surprising amount since Korea.”

“Yeah, I figure we all have.” Trapper sighs. “I know I wasn't at my best back then. And, God knows, neither were you.”

“Wow, thanks Trapper.”

“Oh, you know what I mean.”

Hawkeye looks at Trapper all soft and understanding. “Yeah, I do know what you mean.”

Peg clears her throat gently and both Hawkeye and Trapper's attention snaps back to her. “Was. Was BJ really so bad as all that, back in Korea? In terms of, I don't know, getting worked up about things?”

Hawkeye sighs. “I won't pretend that we didn't fight a whole bunch. But he never went off the deep end or anything.”

Not like Hawkeye himself had.

“Cuz of you and Erin, I think. He knew he'd get to come home to you both and I think that kept him from falling too far down, you know? Though there were days knowing the two of you were back stateside and he was stuck in Korea pushed him over the edge pretty good.”

Hawkeye knocks his shoulder into Trapper's.

“Remember when you got loaded and were going to run away back to Boston?”

Trapper shrugs. “Sure. And then you distracted me with old Ferret Face and stole my duffel bag. It was a dirty move, Hawk. I was so proud – once I'd sobered up.”

“Yeah, well BJ got a hare like that. He got real sloshed and mad as all hell that Radar got to go home.”

“You mean when his uncle Ed died and he went home on a bereavement ticket?” Trapper asks, scandalized. Sure they gave Radar a lot of shit, but he's _family_.

“Yeah. It, uh, it wasn't his proudest moment.”

Peg rejoins with, “No, that would be when he ran Major Burns's underwear up the flagpole.”

Hawkeye and Trapper raise their coffee cups in a silent salute.

“Anyway, he and Max were both pissed – in both senses of the word – and BJ was going to go AWOL. I tried to stop him, but with no ferretty distractions, I couldn't steal his bag. And he, uh, he really took it out on the still.”

And Peg has a feeling there's more to that story, too. But he'd apparently rather not get into the gritty details in public. Which, fair enough.

“Prolly the single greatest tragedy of the Korean war right there,” Trapper quips.

Hawkeye nods solemnly. “It truly was. I spent a whole twenty-four hours sober while we built a new one.”

He pauses.

“Though at least BJ stopped glaring over at it all the time. I was getting kind of sick of that, I'm not going to lie.”

Ah. Right. Because the still was something Hawkeye made with Trapper – a sign that Trapper had been there first.

“He's been working on that, lately,” Peg assures. “The jealousy of inanimate objects thing.”

“Sure,” says Trapper.

Hawkeye elbows him.

“Look, Peg. Regardless of BJ's newfound equanimity around glassware, I was planning on being out and about most of the day. Give him and Hawkeye a chance to catch up.”

She nods. “That's not a bad idea. I know BJ's been really looking forward to having a chance to talk, just the two of them.”

Hawkeye is now sporting a sort of deer in the headlights look. “What, is he breaking up with me?”

Trapper snorts. Kinda the opposite actually.

Peg gasps dramatically. “Never! Hawkeye, you're an absolute keeper.”

Hawkeye grins and blushes, a little shy suddenly. Peg's really nice. He can see why BJ's so fucking gone on her.

“Well, Peg, if you want someone to show you the sights, I'm more than willing. Assuming BJ don't mind us stepping out together.”

Peg laughs. “Depends where we're stepping, I'd imagine.”

“Don't worry. Cuz of having kids, the only places I know are museums and historical sites and other educational type stuff.”

“The botanical gardens are really nice,” Hawkeye supplies.

“I wouldn't know,” Trapper sniffs. “I never got to go.”

Hawkeye throws his hands up in exasperation. “Fine! Next time Charles gets married and asks us to help him find a suitable bride, _you_ can go to the botanical gardens.”

“ _Thank_ you.”

Peg laughs at them. “I think the botanical gardens sound lovely.”

With that decided, they spend the rest of the morning chatting and drinking overpriced coffee and waiting for BJ to finally join them, the lazy bones.

* * *

Hawkeye is starting to feel like maybe Peg and Trapper know something he doesn't. He's had this suspicion since breakfast – and it's only grown as the day's gone on. And now he's home and he and Trapper are in their bedroom unpacking. And Trapper's pulling him close, kissing him deeper than is probably appropriate given that they have houseguests and Trapper's leaving with Peg in a few minutes.

But Hawkeye isn't particularly inclined to pull away, not when Trapper's got a big warm hand cupping the back of his head so gently. Not when he's broken the kiss but is still standing with his forehead pressed against Hawkeye's own, looking at him so warm and tender.

“Love you, Hawk.”

And now he knows something's up. Cuz it's not that Trapper _never_ says it – it's just that he's an awful lot better at physical gestures. Tangible expressions of his love. Things like making Hawkeye food or holding him at night or any of the hundreds of other tiny moments every day that show how he feels.

But he also knows how important words are to Hawkeye.

So if he's saying this now, it's because he thinks Hawkeye needs to hear it. And that makes him nervous. Because, sure, things between Trapper and BJ have always been fraught. But with both Trapper and Peg clearing out to give the two of them some space, this feels like more than just Trapper not particularly wanting to be around the guy. It feels like there's something brewing on the horizon, and Hawkeye doesn't know what it is.

But Trapper isn't upset or scared or anything that actually warrants concern. In fact, he and Peg are treating this secret knowledge more like a surprise birthday party than a portent of impending doom. So he's probably fine.

“Love you too, Trap,” Hawkeye breathes into the space between them.

Trapper smiles softly, grips the back of his neck in a way that's firm, grounding, and pulls away a little. “Have a good time catching up with BJ this afternoon.” He presses a chaste kiss to Hawkeye's lips and then leaves the room, presumably to find Peg and head off to the botanical gardens.

So Hawkeye finishes unpacking his suitcase and then heads downstairs to find BJ. After all, they're supposed to be spending this afternoon alone together catching up. Trapper and Peg have both been very adamant about that.

Hawkeye comes downstairs to find BJ sitting on the sofa. He looks unsure. Nervous. So Hawkeye sits down next to him and picks up his knitting. He needs to do something to get rid of all of his own nervous energy.

The click of knitting needles is soothing.

Hawkeye knit so much in Korea that the sound was practically ingrained in BJ's mind, a constant soundtrack to his life. And hearing it again, now, takes BJ back to those long, boring afternoons in the Swamp when there was nothing worth doing around the MASH and he was pleasantly buzzed but not sloshed. When he and Hawkeye could just sit and _be_ together

The mundanity of Hawkeye's chatter washing over him as he tells stories about work is another balm to BJ's nerves. Hawk's in the middle of some anecdote about a patient he and Letta had to deal with. And he looks so alight with joy, so warm and open and settled and _happy_. BJ can't stand it anymore, sitting next to Hawkeye when he's shining so brightly.

“I love you, Hawkeye.”

The confession just bursts out of him – totally beyond conscious thought. BJ claps a hand to his mouth but the damage has already been done. Hawkeye heard him. He can't take it back.

He's almost glad. It's over and done with - no more agonizing over how to tell him. But mostly, BJ just feels sick to his stomach.

“I love you too, BJ.”

Hawkeye sounds uncharacteristically small. Vulnerable.

He's looking at BJ with such wide-eyed surprise. And what may or may not be hopeless longing. BJ isn't sure that he isn't reading too much into that part of Hawkeye's expression. Because he can't feel the same way as BJ does, he just can't. BJ couldn't take it if he did.

“You're one of my best friends.”

And there it is. Proof that Hawkeye doesn't return his feelings. Proof that BJ is too late. But he needs Hawkeye to understand.

BJ reaches for Hawkeye's hand.

“No, Hawk. I _love_ you. I'm _in love_ with you.”

This is. This is a surprise.

Hawkeye is in genuine shock. After months and years of resigning himself to unrequited feelings, BJ _loves_ him. _Him_.

And Trapper knew, the putz. Him and Peg both, given the way they've cleared out for the afternoon. Peg knows and is clearly ok with it, since BJ's here with him and she isn't.

That gives him the strength to reach out. To take BJ's offered hand and say, “I love you too, Beej,” with all the weight and warmth of three years of knowing it to be true.

BJ laughs. A tremulous little sound that doesn't do any kind of justice to the pure relieved joy he's feeling. And then he and Hawkeye are crashing together into a smothering embrace, Hawkeye practically crawling into BJ's lap and BJ holding him tight enough it feels like he's trying to pull them together into a single being, irrevocably joined.

And then they're kissing and BJ hasn't felt so joyously overwhelmed, so subsumed in another person since he and Peg got married.

* * *

“What do you think BJ and Hawkeye are up to right now?” Peg asks. They're alone in a small side room full of a sort of tropical ecosystem, but even so, she keeps her voice low and leans in towards Trapper from her perch on his gentlemanly arm.

He's really been a model date – considerate without crossing into too intimate. But there's something performative in it. Like he'd learned how to do this without attaching any real emotion to it. And maybe it's just because it's her – his lover's other lover's wife – and he doesn't have any feelings for her. But she does wonder what he'd be like a little less formal. Like he'd been this morning with her and Hawkeye.

He snorts. “Probably something disgustingly sentimental.” BJ seems like the kinda guy to get all soppy. And Hawkeye's been pining after him for a while.

“You don't think they're, um...”

“Having sex?”

“I was going to say screwing,” Peg says sheepishly.

Trapper laughs, apparently relaxing now that the elephant in the room has been acknowledged, so to speak.

“I dunno. Probably. It's not like either of them are blushing virgins.” Cuz while there is something very Normal Rockwell and apple pie about BJ, Trapper has it on good authority – read Sidney – that he's, quote, a raging volcano inside. Which bodes pretty well for Hawkeye getting railed this afternoon.

“BJ was, when we got married.” Peg smiles fondly. “He was so nervous on our wedding night. I had to do most of the, well, the directing.”

“No,” Trapper gasps in disbelief. “This the same guy practically eye-fucking Hawk across the table last night?”

“Oh, I corrupted him pretty quickly,” Peg says with a sly smile. “And I imagine Hawkeye will manage similarly, this side of things.”

“That doesn't bother you?”

Peg shrugs. “It did a little, at first. Mostly the idea that I wasn't enough for my husband – that there was someone else who knew parts of him that I can never know. But now that I've met Hawkeye... He's such a lovely man – funny and charming and kind. I can understand why BJ feels the way he does.”

Trapper laughs. “Yeah, he's definitely one of a kind. I think you either love him or he drives you nuts. Maybe both, some days.”

“You don't think he'd be interested in, well...” Peg trails off delicately.

Trapper understands what she's trying to say, fortunately.

“Probably not. Hawkeye made a rule not to get involved with married women.”

Which is probably a polite way of saying he isn't much interested in any woman. Because that rule obviously doesn't extend to married men.

Peg nods in understanding. “Just thought I'd ask.”

She looks around the room again.

“As lovely as this is, I think I'm done looking at vines.”

“Oh thank God.” Trapper sags in exaggerated relief. “I've seen enough jungle for a lifetime. I don't know what the hell Hawkeye was talking about, talking this place up.”

Peg laughs. “All right then, what else is there to do in this city?”

Trapper grins conspiratorially. “Wanna pretend to be posh, high society individuals for an afternoon? Cuz I know Honoria and the gals are doing afternoon tea at one of the fancy department stores. They'd prolly let us gatecrash.”

Peg grins back. “Lead on, then, Dr. McIntyre.”

They kill a couple enjoyable hours with the gals, pretending to be the cream of Boston high society. But Maggie and Kat start making noise about catching a train home. And Hawkeye and BJ oughtta have had plenty of time to bask in the afterglow by now. So Trapper figures he and Peg oughtta start making tracks towards home too. He's gotta get dinner finished up, anyway.

* * *

Peg watches as Hawkeye and Trapper move around the kitchen, orbiting each other with the ease of long familiarity. BJ was right about them acting married – although they're both much better in the kitchen than he is. The dinner they're putting together smells divine. And it's nice to be served and waited on for once – to be the one to sit at the dinner table while someone else cooks.

Peg takes BJ's hand and gives it a squeeze. She's so glad they've decided on this trip. And she hopes BJ's gotten as much out of the day as she has.

BJ sits next to Peg at the dinner table. He's still a little shaken from earlier. A little emotionally unbalanced.

And Peg is such a steady person. She's been such a rock through all of his agonizing and hoping and fearing of this moment. She's always kept a level head. And he knows she won't steer him wrong. He can trust her, even when he can't trust himself.

Holding her small, soft hand in his helps quiet the storm of emotions within him.

And so does the distraction of Hawkeye absolutely piling his plate with the ribs that have been slow cooking all afternoon. How is he going to eat all that? The Hawkeye he knows lived on gin and righteous fury.

“This is nothin,” Trapper tells him, obviously interpreting his bug-eyed incredulity. “Hawkeye once got thirty pounds of ribs sent from Chicago to Korea.”

“Yeah, but before I could enjoy any of them, we got called into a thirty-six hour OR shift.” Hawkeye shakes his head sadly. “War truly is hell.”

“Yeah, yeah. Quit griping. When we got outta surgery, I bribed Igor with some primo... reading material and a rack of ribs to heat 'em back up for us. And I got to eat maybe one rib outta the whole deal. For such a skinny guy, you sure can put it away”

“And I appreciated your sacrifice, Trap. That remains one of the best nights of my life.” Hawkeye's expression turns dreamy.

“Ouch,” Peg deadpans, looking sideways at Trapper.

“One of the best! I said one of the best.”

“Now that we're back stateside, maybe we oughtta visit Chicago sometime,” Trapper says, consideringly. “You can eat ribs and I could see if Ollie Jones wanted to go to a football game or something.”

“Who's Jones?” BJ asks. Presumably yet another doctor Hawkeye was friends with in Korea. But one who's name hadn't come up in any of the gossip he'd heard when he got to the 4077.

“A neurosurgeon who used to rotate through all the MASH units at the start of the war. Then the brass realized he was pretty useless at general surgery – and didn't have the tools at a field hospital to do anything more than drill burr holes and pray the kids survived the evac to Seoul or Tokyo, same as the rest of us. So he got transferred to Tokyo pretty quick, the lucky bastard.”

“Which was truly a shame,” Trapper adds. “Cuz he drove Frank nuts. And he was one hell of a football player.”

“You guys played football a lot?”

At Trapper's nod, BJ looks wistful. “I wish there'd been more games when I was at the 4077. About the only thing going was Father Mulcahy's weekly Catholics versus Protestants matchup – and that wasn't what I'd call a real game.”

Hawkeye laughs. “Like David going up against Goliath, but without the slingshot.”

“That's strange,” Trapper interjects. “We used to have pick up games all the time. Even had an inter-MASH league at one point. And the 4077 was scheduled to play the unit Ollie was at – we had to bribe him so we didn't get slaughtered.”

“I still think we had a fighting chance, even without bribery and back room deals,” Hawkeye argues. “With you and me and that one guy from the motor pool, we would have cleaned up.”

“With you, huh?” Trapper grins at Hawkeye fondly. “What's your sports experience, exactly?”

Hawkeye affects affront. “I'm one and oh against you, Trap. How dare you!”

“There were extenuating circumstances and you know it!”

Peg looks back and forth between Hawkeye and Trapper as they bicker. It's funny, seeing just how much of a couple they are. Just how much shared history is there.

“Come on, tell the whole story. You can't just leave us to guess at what happened,” she says, mock stern. “That's just rude.”

“Sorry, Peg,” the two chorus contritely. And she waves regally in acceptance of the apology. And also as a signal for them to get on with actually telling the story.

“When I was in undergrad,” Trapper starts off, “I was on the Dartmouth football team -”

“You were captain of the Dartmouth football team, you mean. Don't sell yourself short, Trap.” Hawkeye's making exaggerated eyes at him.

But Trapper just throws his hands up in frustration. “All right, fine. You tell the story, then.”

“When he was in undergrad,” Hawkeye begins with a cheeky grin, “Trapper was captain of the Dartmouth football team. And one fine Maine October day, they were scheduled to play Androscoggin – my alma mater. Unfortunately, there were several Androscoggin players too injured to play – or even show up to the game – so they needed a bench warmer to round out the team. Entre moi. I knew a couple guys on the team and had a free weekend, so I got to sit there and watch the game from the sidelines.”

“Watch the cheerleaders, you mean,” Trapper interjects.

“Hush, I'm telling the story. Anyway, a big old snow storm starts up and you can't see three feet in front of your face. This leads to another injured player for Androscoggin – and myself entering the game. It's down to the wire and Dartmouth is down by three points. Trapper throws a Hail Mary pass – but, in a show of athletic greatness never seen before or since – I intercepted the pass and won the game for Androscoggin.”

“And he's never let me forget it,” Trapper grouses. “Or played a game since.”

“Hah! I knew you were lying about having two varsity letters and a sports scholarship!” BJ feels retroactively vindicated.

Trapper snorts. “The only way he'd have two varsity letters is if he got pinned.”

“I did say I knew a couple guys on the football team,” Hawkeye says, tone full of innuendo. “But fine, I admit I must have gotten myself confused with someone else.”

“Someone who's a surgeon and who had two varsity letters and a football scholarship. Wonder who that could be,” Trapper deadpans.

“What else did you letter in?” BJ asks, curious despite himself.

“Boxing. And you?” Cuz BJ's pretty obviously a jock. And he's actually having a civil conversation with Trapper, so he's gonna encourage that whatever way he can. Even if it means reliving the glory days of college athletics...

“Football and crew.”

“Well,” Hawkeye says with a bit of a leer, “that explains the shoulders.”

“I was in the sailing club and I always liked to take my boat out during the rowing team practices,” Peg says, looking a little dreamy. “That's actually how BJ and I met.”

BJ buries his head in his hands. “C'mon, Peg, don't tell this story. It's embarrassing.”

But she just waves away his protests. Because the unthinkable has happened while he was otherwise engaged. Peg has become _friends_ with Hawkeye and Trapper.

Which means he won't be able to get out of this.

Peg smiles sweetly at BJ. He's so incredibly screwed.

“One day, the rowing team was out for practice, and I had my sailboat out for a spin. And somehow, the crew boat capsized. So I come over to see if I can help fish any of them out of the ocean – because they were having a hell of a time getting their boat flipped back over and they were all just clinging to it like this was the Titanic or something.

“Anyway, I get over there and start hauling people out of the water. And when it gets to be BJ's turn, well, lets just say that the laws of physics were not on our side. There he is, six foot four and two hundred pounds of muscle and I'm barely half that – just heaving on his arm with my foot braced against the railing. And I think, well, I've just about got it, and the next thing I know - I'm in the drink.”

Peg laughs.

“And you know what BJ's reaction was when we both got rescued by the rest of the crew – still dripping wet and me mad as all hell? To ask me out on a date!”

“Did you say yes?” Hawkeye asks, with mischief gleaming in his eyes. BJ knows he's going to get shit for this for _years_.

“I did,” Peg says with a laugh.

“Because when else was she going to find a catch like that?” BJ asks, to general groaning and calls to make better puns.

“However,” Peg continues, “I did refuse to go on any water adjacent dates for the whole first year we were together, just in case.”

Hawkeye's joyful laugh rings out in the dining room. And Trapper's clearing the dinner dishes to make way for dessert. And the whole thing is just really, really nice. Homey. Comfortable.

Peg had honestly been worried about how all of this was going to go. Worried that BJ would get jealous, or that she would, or that Hawkeye would. Worried that they'd all rub each other the wrong way – that they wouldn't be able to spend time all together and instead have to split off into whatever pairs were currently fucking each other.

But instead they get a continuation of how the whole MASH table had felt. Like they're a family.


	12. Menage a Trois, Kinda

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy new year! Have 5k of whatever the fuck this is. Plot relevant porn, I guess.  
> This chapter features explicit sex between Hawkeye, Trapper, and BJ. If you're not into that, you might want to give this whole chapter a miss - there's not really a good point to skip the sex scenes.

“You mind if I head to the gym?” Trapper asks Hawkeye as they stand together at the kitchen sink, washing the dinner dishes. “Brian and I talked about going a few rounds, back when this whole visit deal got brought up.”

Cuz BJ'd been civil all during dinner – and him and Peg have run off together somewhere while Trapper and Hawk wash up – but still, Trapper ain't looking to hang around where he ain't wanted. And Hawkeye's got so little time with BJ, they oughtta make the most of it. They don't need him butting in.

“Yeah, that's fine with me.” Hawkeye dries his hands and hooks a finger through the belt loops of Trapper's jeans, pulling him close. “Just don't get your face bashed in too bad, huh? I'm the one who has to look at you.”

Trapper grins. “Don't worry, I won't let anything happen to this mush.”

And then he kisses Hawkeye. Just a quick peck cuz he doesn't know when BJ and Peg might be coming back through the kitchen. But Hawkeye's obviously feeling a little amorous.

Which ain't surprising if him and BJ have been canoodling all afternoon. In fact, Trapper half expects to find a sock on the door when he gets back from the gym.

What greets him instead is a pajama clad Hawkeye all tucked into bed, doing a crossword puzzle outta the newspaper while the radio plays softly in the background. And sure, it's cute – in the heart-meltingly domestic kinda way Trapper figured they'd never get to have. But it don't exactly spell ravishment – either prior or impending. And BJ is noticeably absent from the scene.

Which prompts Trapper to ask, “Sooo, how'd it go with you and BJ?” as he shoos Hawkeye over so he can sit next to him on the edge of the bed.

Hawkeye sighs and puts down his crossword. “Well, BJ told me he loved me. And I told him I loved him. And then we made out for a while.”

Ok, so far so good.

“And BJ got pretty into it, you know?”

“Yeah, and I'm sure it did absolutely nothing for you,” Trapper teases.

“Oh shut up.” Hawkeye whacks him in the chest with the back of his hand. “So anyway, I gave him a handy.”

“As is only polite,” Trapper says in a posh accent.

“The genteelest of hand jobs,” Hawkeye adds with a laugh.

“Belongs in the fucking society pages, that handy. Right next to Charles's fucking wedding announcement.”

Hawkeye laughs hard enough he tips over into Trapper's side, though it's obvious he's at least trying to be quiet out of consideration for the late hour.

When Hawkeye's recovered enough to speak, he stays leaning against Trapper but he gasps out, “And then I was going to blow him -”

“How come you're never this gentlemanly with me, Hawk?”

“- But I barely. Oh, quit griping - I blow you plenty. Anyway, I barely got my mouth on him and he -”  
Hawkeye makes a sort of exploding outward gesture, complete with sound effects.

“That good, huh?” Though to be fair to BJ, Hawkeye has one hell of a mouth on him - in more ways than one.

“And then he started crying.”

Oof. Ok, Trapper hadn't seen that one coming.

“Must have been one shitty bj. I'm surprised, Hawk - you're usually pretty good at those.”

But Trapper takes Hawkeye's hand and squeezes it reassuringly. It's tough when something you've been dreaming about for practically forever don't work out the way you want.

Hawkeye squeezes back, obviously getting the message.

“Anyway, we cuddled for a while and then you and Peg came home and we all had dinner.”

“Yeah, I was there for that part,” Trapper points out, perfectly reasonably. There's no call for Hawkeye to whack him again.

“And then once you ran off to the gym, BJ and Peg had some nice, tender, relationship affirming heterosexual sex in our guest room – which I very carefully didn't listen to.”

“Well, shit.”

That really fucking blows.

“I'm sorry, Hawk.” Trapper pulls him closer into his side, trying to comfort him - though there's not much he can really do about all that.

“That's the problem with married men, I suppose,” Hawkeye says philosophically. “They keep going back to their wives.”

“Still, I wouldn't have figured BJ for playing a double header. He didn't strike me as the “love 'em and leave 'em” type, I guess.”

And with this being Hawkeye...

“Want me to go knock some sense into him, dating-etiquette-wise?”

Hawkeye laughs. “Yeah, and how many double headers have you played, exactly?”

“Hey, I haven't had one since the night my divorce got finalized,” Trapper protests. “Since then it's just been you for me, baby.” He gives Hawkeye an exaggerated eyebrow waggle, just to really show the depths of his sincerity.

He's gratified when Hawkeye laughs.

“Anyway, I didn't think you minded us fucking multiple times in a night.”

Hawkeye grins. “You've got me there.” And then his expression turns sly. “So. The post-divorce schtupping. Anybody I know?”

“Nah. Just a couple of nurses that were looking for a one-night-stand.”

Hawkeye looks vaguely disappointed.

“Though, I did go down to the bar, after - the one in South End.”

And Hawkeye is certainly paying Trapper's story plenty of attention now. So he keeps going. Plays it up a little.

“Got on my knees out back. And Brian was one of the guys who shoved his cock down my throat. Fucked me till I couldn't breath, till I couldn't remember my own name. Till all I could think about was the dick in my mouth and the hand in my hair and how good it all was. So that probably counts.”

“Oh, Trapper.” Hawkeye caresses the side of his face tenderly and revels in the way it guides Trapper into kneeling in the vee of his legs. “You slut.”

Trapper presses his forehead into Hawkeye's thigh. “You know it, sweetheart.” And it probably shouldn't sound as much like a declaration of love as it does.

They sit like that for a while, with Hawkeye combing gently through Trapper's hair. And it's nice, just like this. A reminder that Trapper's here and loves him and isn't going anywhere. But Hawkeye definitely isn't complaining when Trapper starts nosing at his cock, laying kisses on it through the fabric of his pajamas. He's obviously been _inspired_ by his little story – not that it didn't work to get Hawkeye himself in the mood.

But before things can get too far, he nudges Trapper away.

He goes grudgingly, and with an almost plaintive final kiss - but he goes. And as Trapper sits back on his haunches, looking up at Hawkeye, mouth slick and red and pupils blown, Hawkeye wants to pull him right back down. But.

“You'd better get a pillow if we're really doing this. Your knees aren't as young as they used to be.”

And Trapper complies, even though it hurts to tear himself away. Cuz he likes to take his time at this – now that they have the time. And, God knows, Hawkeye likes to be made to wait.

“And take your shirt off,” Hawkeye calls after him. “Give me something pretty to look at, huh?”

Trapper complies with a laugh. And flexes, the showoff – though Hawkeye can't exactly complain about the free show.

And the acres of broad, muscular back on display when Trapper kneels at his feet again are pretty great too.

* * *

BJ wakes up to Peg curled up in his arms and to low voices from the bedroom next door. Trapper must be back from wherever the hell it was he'd run off to after dinner. And Hawkeye's obviously still awake – BJ can hear his honking laugh straight through the wall.

He feels a little bad about how he'd left things with Hawkeye. Running right from Hawk's arms to Peg's without so much as a goodnight is pretty bad form.

But this is so close to the dreams – nightmares - he's had. Dreams of BJ stuck laying alone in this exact bed, with Trapper and Hawkeye next door, fucking. Hawkeye so, so close, but so, so unreachable. The wall as wide a chasm between them as the grand fucking canyon.

But Hawkeye loves him. Hawkeye _loves_ him. Even if he loves Trapper too.

And it doesn't sound like they're fucking. There's no pornographic moans like from his dreams, no headboard slamming against the wall, no screams of “More, Trapper, harder.” Not even the breathy gasping pants that haunted BJ's nights in Korea. No, it sounds like they're just talking, low and intimate.

BJ lays there for a while, staring up at the dark ceiling, listening to the quiet voices from the next room. Agonizing.

He wants to make things right. Knows how important closure is to Hawkeye. But it's so nice and comfortable, here in Peg's arms. Familiar. Safe.

But she'd read him the riot act for ever saying any of that out loud. And she'd be right to – the whole point of this deal was to tell Hawkeye the truth of how he feels. So BJ disentangles himself gently from Peg's hold – careful not to wake her – and goes to say goodnight.

* * *

BJ pushes the door to Hawkeye and Trapper's room open gently, still careful of how much noise he's making. And stops dead.

Because Trapper is on his knees, with his face buried between Hawkeye's thighs. Very, very obviously giving him a blow job.

It doesn't make sense. BJ cannot make sense of it.

Even in the worst – best – _worst_ versions of his dream, where Hawkeye and Trapper are fucking like rabbits in their room while BJ is stuck next door, it was never anything like this. It was always Trapper fucking Hawkeye. Taking him. _Owning_ him. With Hawkeye submissive and sweet and begging for it, sure – but ultimately just a way for Trapper to get off.

This is nothing like that at all. And it just doesn't make sense.

The fact that Trapper is the one on his knees. The fact that he's shirtless, feet bare - looking _vulnerable_. More vulnerable than BJ could ever imagine seeing him. More vulnerable than BJ could ever imagine him letting himself be. More vulnerable than Hawkeye, who's completely naked.

It just doesn't make sense.

The tender way Hawkeye cups the side of Trapper's face - like he loves Trapper, like he's doing Trapper a favor by letting him do this. The almost worshipful pose - like Trapper thinks it's a favor too. Again, the fact that it's _Trapper_ kneeling at _Hawkeye's_ feet.

So he stays to watch. To try and understand. To try and reconcile what he's seeing with what he thought he understood.

And now Hawkeye is pulling Trapper off his dick by his hair. Holding him back far enough that all he can do is lick and suck at the flushed head of Hawkeye's cock – which he's doing with enough enthusiasm that BJ can hear it over the soft jazz playing on the radio.

BJ has to adjust himself in his shorts.

Because he's seen Hawkeye naked. And he's seen Hawkeye with a hard on, though he'd been quick to turn away the one time he'd caught him with a hand down his pants. But he's never seen Hawkeye like this. Gentle and commanding and, and _in charge_. His cock naked and hard and spit shiny – from Trapper's mouth.

Trapper who's still straining against Hawkeye's hold, seemingly desperate to get more of Hawkeye's dick in his mouth. Trapper who's looking up at Hawkeye now through his eyelashes, mouth slack and panting, like some kind of... Like some kind of _whore_.

It just does not make _any_ sense.

And then Hawkeye lets go of Trapper, stops keeping him reigned in. And Trapper swallows Hawkeye's dick with a ravenous lunge. Swallows and swallows until his nose is pressed into Hawkeye's groin and BJ wonders how he can even breath.

And Hawkeye's groaning out a shaky breath. And he's clutching at the back of Trapper's skull, pressing him deeper still. Holding him in place as Hawkeye fucks against his face. And Trapper's making these desperate, wet sounds – from swallowing around the cock in his throat, BJ realizes.

He lets out a groan. And Hawkeye's eyes snap up to meet his. Fuck.

“Can we..” Hawkeye's hips jerk. “Can we help you?” It comes out about as sharp as he's probably capable of right now. And Hawkeye's looking pointedly at BJ's crotch.

He tears his hands away from where he'd been touching himself. He hadn't even known he'd been doing that till now, but he misses the pressure as soon as it's gone.

“Um, I just, uh... I just came to say goodnight.”

BJ looks down at the floor, too embarrassed to make eye contact with Hawkeye. Which means he gets a really good view of Trapper disentangling himself from Hawkeye's dick. Gets to see the final gentle kiss Trapper places on the head as he pulls away.

Gets to see the way Trapper sprawls at Hawkeye's feet. Like he belongs there.

“What, and you never learned how to knock?”

Trapper's biting sarcasm would probably be more effective if he wasn't currently using the back of his fist to wipe at his spit slick mouth. If he wasn't sprawled with his knees apart so that BJ can see just how much he was enjoying having Hawkeye's cock down his throat. And he'd obviously enjoyed it a hell of a lot.

“It just doesn't make sense.”

“ _I_ thought it was pretty obvious,” Hawkeye says.

And shit. BJ must have voiced his confusion out loud.

“Hell,” Trapper butts in, “he's even named after it. You'd figure he'd be familiar.”

BJ doesn't particularly like being referred to as if he's not even in the room – although, in fairness, he really, really shouldn't be there. Should have cut his losses and closed the door and returned to his wife's arms the moment he realized Hawkeye and Trapper were otherwise engaged. But he's here, so.

“No, I know what a blow job is.” Even if he hasn't really experienced one before – the thing this afternoon with Hawkeye notwithstanding. And Hawkeye hadn't even really done anything before BJ had, well... Anyway, it hadn't really counted.

BJ clears his throat.

Trapper and Hawkeye are looking expectantly up at him so BJ pulls himself together. “I mean, why was Trapper the one giving it?”

Because that's really the thing that's confusing BJ the most. Why Trapper would do that for Hawkeye. Why he would so obviously _enjoy_ it.

Trapper and Hawkeye exchange a look. And then Trapper shrugs. “I like doing it. Like the intimacy of it. And I sure ain't had any complaints from anyone on the receiving end.” He looks up at Hawkeye all cocky and smarmy and this is much more what BJ was expecting when he thought about the two of them having sex together.

Not that he's thought about it at all. Hardly ever, outside of the occasional dream. He's thought about it a completely normal amount, thank you very much.

“I think it was Oscar Wilde who said that love is a sacrament best received kneeling,” Hawkeye adds, when it becomes clear BJ isn't going to say anything else.

“The big Irish fruit.”

Hawkeye jostles Trapper's shoulder with his knee. “Takes one to know one, I guess.”

And Trapper turns his head to press a kiss to Hawkeye's bare knee – and they're squarely back at mindbogglingly sentimental.

* * *

Trapper catches BJ staring every time he and Hawk do anything remotely intimate. And when Trapper automatically presses a kiss to the most available patch of Hawkeye's skin in response to being touched by him, BJ's eyes practically bug outta his head like a goldfish.

Like he's surprised that they're together, somehow.

And sure, maybe knowing and _knowing_ are two different things. Maybe he's still coming to grips with the actual proof. With actually seeing the two of them together – the peeping Tom.

But that don't quite match up with how BJ's acting. Not with what he'd said about being surprised it's Trapper on his knees instead of Hawkeye.

It's almost like... It's almost like he was expecting Trapper to _not_ want to touch and kiss and love on Hawkeye. To not want to be gentle.

Like he was expecting Trapper to be selfish. To be cruel – or at least callous. To only be concerned with getting himself off and Hawkeye could go fuck himself.

Which, ok. Trapper knows BJ don't exactly have a high opinion of him. But still, that's pretty goddamn low of an opinion. And one that Trapper's gonna aim to correct before this awkward little menage a trois goes any further.

“Siddown, will ya?”

BJ drops like a rock. And ok, maybe there's something else at play here, too.

“Look, I get that this maybe ain't what you were expecting.” Trapper gestures between himself and Hawkeye. “I get that you thought I was gonna be mean. Be forceful.”

Hawkeye looks at Trapper like he's gone nuts. But before he can come to the defense of Trapper's honor – such as it is – Trapper gives him the signal, honed over years of pranks, that says, “Lemme run with this a minute, I know what I'm doing here.” And Hawkeye nods in understanding, relaxes back into the pillows, and lets Trapper run his mouth some more.

“You thought I was gonna be rough with him. Hold him down and take him. Nothing he could do about it but lay there and take it.”

BJ shudders and starts to say something – but Trapper holds up a hand to cut him off.

“You thought you were gonna walk in on us and I'd just be fucking Hawkeye through the mattress. Using him till I got what I wanted. And then I was just gonna leave him – desperate and aching and hard, with no relief.”

This time, it's Hawkeye who shivers.

“And then what? You were gonna come in here and sweep Hawkeye off his feet? Fuck him sweet and tender – while big, mean Trapper lays there, oblivious?”

At least BJ has the grace to look embarrassed.

And Trapper gentles his tone a little in response. “See, that could be a fun game.” He jerks his thumb at Hawkeye. “We've played games like that before. And had a lot of fun with it.”

Hawkeye nods enthusiastically.

“But it's just a game, BJ. It ain't real.”

Trapper reaches out. Puts a big, warm hand on BJ's shoulder. Looks him right in the eye – and Trapper's eyes are so deep, so warm.

“It ain't real.”

And then Trapper leans back against Hawkeye's leg. Relaxed. Like he belongs there.

Like he's saying, “This – this is what's real.”

* * *

Hawkeye starts combing a hand through Trapper's hair again. And BJ... BJ wants that too. That gentle touch. That intimacy.

“Can I?” He gestures vaguely at the space between Hawkeye's thighs.

Hawkeye and Trapper look at each other. Pass some unspoken question and answer between the two of them. And apparently come to an understanding, because Hawkeye throws back the blankets he'd been using to cover his lap and says, “Sure.”

Casually. Like it's no big deal. But now that BJ's staring down the barrel of this thing, he's feeling... unsure. Because he has absolutely no idea what he's doing. And that's about to become very, very apparent.

But Hawkeye's holding out a hand, reaching out to him. And it's really easy to slot himself right there in Hawkeye's orbit. To let Hawkeye cradle his cheek, like it was made to fit in Hawkeye's hand. To rest his forehead against Hawkeye's knee while Hawkeye combs through his hair, gentle and settling and sweet.

“Try kissing on him a little,” Trapper directs from around the other side of Hawkeye. “Just on the insides of his thighs.”

BJ complies, because that feels like something he can do without making a fool of himself. And oh God. Oh _God_ is it intimate – Trapper was right about that.

BJ is surrounded by Hawkeye, subsumed by him. Worshiping him like he's something precious. And Hawkeye is still running gentle fingers through his hair. Caressing him, holding him.

It's beautiful. It's overwhelming. BJ wants more.

“You can kiss his cock, too,” Trapper says, apparently reading his mind. “That's it, nice and wet and open-mouthed. All up and down the shaft, that's right.”

Hawkeye's fingers have gone from caressing to clutching at BJ's hair. And he's spread his legs wider, giving BJ more access, letting him press kisses all the way down to the base of his dick.

BJ wants to bury his face in the join of Hawkeye's thigh, feel those gentle hands holding and caressing him, and stay there forever. But he also wants what Trapper had – Hawkeye's cock in his throat and his hips fucking against his face. He wants to be surrounded and filled up till there's nothing else but this. BJ whines, needy and in the back of his throat.

And there's another hand in his hair – Trapper's – pulling him back up to the head of Hawkeye's cock.

“There you go, that's it.”

BJ blinks in the sudden light. And when had he closed his eyes?

“See how hard he is for you? Just starting to get wet, right there at the slit?”

BJ lets Trapper direct his gaze downward. Sees that Hawkeye's hard, so hard. God, BJ wants him in his mouth. He nods, best he can with Trapper holding him like he is.

“You can put your mouth on him - lick and suck right there at the head. That's right, nice and gentle like that.”

Hawkeye tastes slightly bitter on BJ's tongue. And he wouldn't say he exactly loves it or anything.

But Hawkeye's making these breathy little moans. And his hips are canting up off the bed. And he's breathing out things like, “Fuck,” and “Beej,” and “God, fuck, so good,” as he pets distractedly at BJ's hair.

And that... That is really, really good. BJ has to rub at the head of his own cock where it's straining, neglected, against the front of his shorts, it's so good. So he takes Hawkeye back into his mouth, sucks on the head. Feels him set heavy and warm on his tongue, filling him up.

But it's still not what Trapper was doing earlier. And BJ wants that. Maybe partly because he'll be damned if Trapper shows him up in any way – especially involving sex, and Hawkeye, and sex with Hawkeye. But he also wants it for it's own sake. That complete and utter intimacy.

BJ tries to bring Hawkeye further into his mouth, to draw him in deeper and deeper still. But when Hawkeye's cock hits the back of his throat, he gags against it, can't get it to go any further. And he has to pull off, coughing and sputtering, and ashamed at failing – at not being able to give Hawkeye this.

Tears prickle at the corner of his eyes, and only partly from the sensation of choking still lingering in the back of his throat. It's just so frustrating. Trapper had made it look _easy_ , the bastard _._

The bastard who's currently rubbing BJ's back in soothing circles and saying things like, “Take it easy,” and, “You're ok, just breathe,” and, “Lemme get you a glass of water.” BJ wants to hate him for it. But he does appreciate the glass of water.

And Hawkeye's still petting gently at his hair, so he probably didn't fuck things up completely. Hawkeye isn't kicking him out and going back to Trapper, at least.

“You ok, Beej?”

Hawkeye's tone is concerned, and his expression is both serious and warm. It prompts BJ to answer honestly. “Yeah, I'm fine. Just a little embarrassed.”

“There's nothing to be embarrassed about,” Hawkeye says, matter-of-fact. “I've certainly had my fair share of awkward sexual firsts.”

Trapper snorts. He'd obviously been there for some of them.

“It's just. Trapper made it look so easy.” And fine, maybe BJ's tone is a little petulant – but you can't really blame him. Trapper just seems to bring out all of his insecurities, for whatever reason. Even if he's being pretty nice about the whole BJ failing at blow jobs thing.

“What? Deep throating?” Trapper seems surprised.

And Hawkeye laughs. “Oh, that was far, far from his first rodeo. Trapper's had a _lot_ of practice over the years.” And then Hawkeye's tone turns... sultry, almost. “And you know what they say about practice.”

“Aw, it's nice to hear I'm perfect, Hawk,” Trapper teases, with a coquettish fluttering of his eyelashes up at Hawkeye. But then he turns back to BJ. “There's a trick, if you wanna learn it.”

BJ nods a little desperately.

“Ok,” Trapper says. And he's started pumping Hawkeye's cock to get him back to hard and straining – and it's a little distracting. But BJ does his best to pay attention to Trapper's mouth instead of his big, huge, really huge, hand on Hawkeye's dick. Oh fuck.

“Sorry, one more time?”

Trapper laughs, but he does stop jacking Hawkeye off, so BJ will take that as a win. “When you've got him all the way back in your throat, just before you start to choke on it, swallow – like you're taking a big drink of something – and keep pressing forward. Here, I'll show you.”

Trapper takes BJ's hand and holds it against his throat and wow, ok. BJ has to shift to make a little more room in his shorts at that.

And then Trapper's leaning in and taking Hawkeye into his mouth – and keeping BJ's hand pressed to his throat, right at the soft, tender place beneath his jaw. And BJ can feel the vibrations as Trapper hums around Hawkeye's cock. Can feel the point when Trapper swallows – big and obvious and obviously for BJ's benefit – and brings Hawkeye down into his throat.

BJ can feel Hawkeye in Trapper's throat.

Fuck. BJ's hand tightens around his own cock and around Trapper's throat both. _Fuck_.

He can feel every fucking inch of Hawkeye's cock through Trapper's throat. He can feel when Hawkeye fucks against Trapper's face and it forces him to swallow around it – tiny desperate bobs of his Adam's apple under BJ's hand. Fuck.

BJ's hand is flying over his cock. He's so fucking close.

And so is Hawkeye, apparently. He's making these desperate, broken little moans and he's got a hand in Trapper's hair, pressing him deep, so deep as his hips thrust wildly.

And then Hawkeye's coming. And BJ can feel Trapper swallowing, swallowing, swallowing him down. And BJ's coming too.

“Pretty good trick, getting two people off with one blow job, Trap.” Hawkeye still sounds a little shaky, but he's recovered enough to comb gently through BJ's hair. And he traces his other hand down the side of Trapper's face as he pulls off of Hawkeye's cock.

Trapper rests his cheek in Hawkeye's hand and then kisses his palm before pulling away. He's got something approximating his usual cocky smirk – but he's keeping his mouth closed for some reason. And then he's leaning forward to kiss BJ.

Oh God, he's got Hawkeye's come _in his mouth_. And he's kissing it _into BJ's mouth_. BJ feels his spent cock jerk at the slick slide of Trapper's tongue. At the knowledge that this is Hawkeye being pressed into BJ's mouth. Shared between the two of them.

* * *

“Well, that was fun.” Hawkeye's laying stretched and sprawling face down across the bed, with BJ tucked into the little corner that's left over.

Trapper nods. He's had a nice evening, all things considered. And it's about to be a whole lot nicer, if the look Hawkeye's giving him over his shoulder is any indication.

Though it's kinda funny, this whole scenario being pretty much the opposite of what BJ'd had cooking in his head for what was apparently months. BJ and Hawkeye both spent – and BJ sleeping like the dead while Trapper's still hard.

He gives himself a stroke, just to take a little bit of the edge off. And he's pretty gratified when Hawkeye gets up on his knees and elbows, apparently ready for round two.

“You gonna put it in me, Trap? Fuck me rough and hard – right through the mattress?” And Hawkeye must be thinking about BJ's little fantasy, too.

Trapper gets on his knees behind Hawkeye, slides his dick slick and sweet between his thighs. “Nah, I think there's been enough excitement for tonight. But we can definitely put a pin in that for the next time BJ comes through town.”

Hawkeye shivers and squeezes his thighs together, blissfully tight around Trapper's cock. “Thanks for handling all that with BJ, by the way. How'd you know it was what he needed?”

Trapper shrugs – not that Hawkeye can see it – and thrusts forward. “Something Peg said about him needing direction his first night with her.”

Trapper takes a few minutes to rock between Hawkeye's thighs. To just enjoy the friction and the sight of Hawkeye's arched back, the feel of his smooth skin under Trapper's lips as he kisses his way across the pale expanse.

“And some guys, they're all posture, you know? All big macho bullshit – till they get their hand on another guys dick and then they get scared. Don't know what to do with what they're feeling, you know?”

“I feel like our formative queer experiences were very different,” Hawkeye pants out, “but continue.”

Trapper snorts. “Yeah, prolly.” Hawkeye's almost definitely involved a lot less high school locker rooms after football practice. And less fumbling handys with teammates. “Anyway, I don't think BJ's all that macho – not like that. But he still had that thing of thinking I was – based on I don't even know what. How I look, maybe. And that you were the girl, needing to be rescued from me by a knight in shining armor or whatever. And that he was gonna be the knight, you know? Treat you sweet. Treat you right. Win you over.”

Trapper grips Hawkeye's hips tighter, speeds up his thrusts. He's getting close. And Hawkeye obligingly tightens the press of his thighs, really gives Trapper something to thrust into.

“It's all bullshit, of course.”

“Yeah, you treat me plenty sweet.” Hawkeye's contorting himself around to give Trapper cow eyes.

And Trapper does his best to kiss him on his big smirking grin. But the angle's bad and he ends up getting Hawkeye's chin instead. It's ok, Hawkeye knows what he means.

They don't say much after that, not till Trapper's finished and wiped them both sorta clean with someone's discarded t-shirt. Then he's all snuggled into bed, with Hawkeye slotted into the curve of his body, with BJ curled up in Hawkeye's arms. And Trapper breathes a quiet, “Goodnight,” to anyone still awake to hear it.


	13. The Morning After The Night Before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The polycule eats breakfast. And talks through a lot of shit like reasonable, well adjusted adults. They aren't, but they're trying.

“Morning, Hawk.”

Hawkeye pulls him down for a kiss. “Good morning, Trapper.” They kiss again.

Seems like it's gonna be a pretty good morning, if Hawkeye's acting this affectionate. But first things first.

“I brang you a cup of coffee.” Trapper hands over the mug carefully, not wanting to dump hot coffee all over Hawkeye's lap. That'd really put a damper on the day.

Hawkeye puts the mug on the nightstand. Kisses Trapper again. Deeper, with more intent.

“Hmm. The room service at this hotel really is excellent.” Another kiss. “I'll have to stay here more often.”

And then Hawkeye's untying Trapper's robe and pushing it off his shoulders to pool on the floor. And Hawkeye's pulling Trapper into his lap, running his hands down Trapper's back, grabbing handfuls of his ass to pull them closer together. This time, it's Trapper who kisses Hawkeye.

“There's plenty of availability. I could book you in for the whole rest of your life, if you want.”

Hawkeye runs a hand through Trapper's hair. Smiles up at him so bright and warm. “I think I'd like that, Trap.”

Trapper kisses him deep and sweet. And when the kiss breaks, he rests his forehead against Hawkeye's. Breathes into the space between their bodies.

BJ wakes up to Trapper and Hawkeye eye fucking on the bed next to him. And if the way Hawkeye's kneading Trapper's ass, pulling him impossibly closer so they can rock together, is any indication – they're going to be actually fucking any minute now. BJ has no particular feelings about this. And neither does his hard on.

BJ shifts to a more comfortable position as Trapper reaches a hand down between his and Hawkeye's bodies. And he must make enough noise or a big enough movement that they notice. Because Trapper stills and Hawkeye's gaze snaps to BJ's face.

“I'm starting to notice a trend here, Beej,” Hawkeye teases, his pointed glance at BJ's hand on his cock – obvious even under the covers - enough to bring back all of last night.

BJ blushes and jerks his hand away from his crotch. “Sorry. Sorry. Let me clear out, give you some space...”

BJ tries to wrench himself out of bed while staying mostly covered by the sheets and looking around wildly for clothes that might belong to him.

“You don't gotta clear out,” Trapper says. And he lays a big hand on BJ's shoulder. BJ about leaps out of his skin. “Unless you wanna. But I kinda figured you and Hawkeye'd want this time together. That it oughtta be me clearing out.”

BJ gapes at him. That wasn't what he was expecting at all.

He says as much, prompting Hawkeye and Trapper to look at each other for a long moment.

“I think we need to talk about all this,” Hawkeye says, gesturing to encompass the bed and everyone in it.

BJ freezes like a deer in headlights.

“Not anything bad,” Hawkeye reassures him. “Just, I think we ought to set the record straight, so to speak. In the interests of emotional honesty and healthy relationships and all that jazz.”

Trapper settles back onto the bed. And BJ does not miss the warmth and grounding of his hand. Not at all.

“You been talking to Sidney, Hawk?”

“Nah, just thinking about what you were saying last night Trap. About BJ having a story in his head about how all of this was going to go.” Hawkeye pauses. “I had a story, too, I guess. And neither of them matched reality, so I think we should talk about it.”

Trapper shrugs. “I don't know that I had any kinda story in my head. Though I had kinda figured I'd come home and the two of you'd be fucking like rabbits. But I guess not everyone falls into bed as easy as me,” he looks a little rueful.

Hawkeye laughs. “You are pretty easy. But I guess that's what I mean. We all had different expectations about how this was going to work – and I think we should talk through it. Cuz I really want this to work out.”

“I want this to work, too,” BJ says, voice small.

“All right.” Trapper nods decisively. “But if I'm baring my soul, I wanna put on pants.”

“Do you think... do you think Peg ought to be part of this?” BJ sounds unsure – and this is why it's probably good to have this conversation, difficult as it is. Hawkeye doesn't want him going home sounding – feeling – like that.

“She is a pretty integral member of this little quartet,” Hawkeye says with a grin. “And I'm pretty sure she'd read us all the riot act if we didn't invite her.”

“I'll go put on another pot of coffee,” a now dressed Trapper offers.

And BJ doesn't know that he's going to be able to look at him and not see the version of him from last night - vulnerable, and on his knees, and loving it – superimposed over his cocky smirk, his broad shoulders. Fuck.

“I'm going to need to, uh, freshen up first.”

Hawkeye waves him regally towards the bathroom. “Knock yourself out.”

“There's Vaseline in the medicine cabinet,” Trapper adds helpfully. And BJ blushes hard enough he probably looks like a tomato.

Hawkeye laughs at both of them. And then shoos them out of the bedroom. “Scoot. Both of you. I'm finishing this cup of coffee in what counts for peace around here.” He holds up the mug. “And close the door after you!”

Trapper smiles fondly and complies. Then claps a hand on BJ's naked shoulder. “See you downstairs in a few.”

And if BJ rubs one out in Hawkeye and Trapper's bathroom to the sensation of Trapper's hands on his skin, and the sight of Hawkeye's warm, happy grin, that's not really anybody's business but his.

* * *

When Hawkeye makes his way downstairs – after finishing his coffee and the crossword from last night – Trapper has not only made another pot of coffee but what's probably a round dozen scrambled eggs, stacks of toast, and he's just transferring the last of a pan of bacon onto a paper towel.

“Oh, Trap.” Hawkeye comes up behind him, hugs him around his middle, tucks his nose into Trapper's t-shirt.

Trapper turns around in his arms. Hugs Hawkeye back. “I just. You know I ain't good with... with words. I needed to _do_ something.”

Hawkeye cradles the back of Trapper's head, tucks him nice and safe into the join of his neck. “I know. And it's gonna be ok, Trapper. I promise.”

Trapper sniffs. “Yeah, I know.” And he pulls away, just enough to move his hands to Hawkeye's hips and to press a quick peck to his lips. “Now help me get all this shit to the table, huh?”

Hawkeye gives the base of Trapper's neck one last squeeze. “Sure Trap.”

“Well, this sure smells delicious,” Peg says when they're all gathered at the kitchen table, food dished out and coffee and orange juice poured. Because it feels like they're sitting on the precipice of something big – something important – and she wants to break the ice. But also, the food does smell delicious.

Trapper looks a little embarrassed. “Thanks. There may or may not be coffee cake in the oven for later.”

Hawkeye squeezes his knee under the table.

Trapper squeezes Hawkeye's knee in return. And that gives him the ability to start talking.

“I suppose you're wondering why I've called all of you here today.” Trapper gives him a look. “Ok, fine. I think we should all talk about yesterday and what we want out of the future and, and _us_.” Hawkeye gestures at the table at large.

At everyone's nod, he takes a deep breath and keeps going. “And since I'm the one bringing this up, I guess I'll go first. BJ, when you cut out after dinner, I felt like maybe you were having second thoughts about all this. Like you regretted it and, and just wanted to go back to Peg. To forget the whole thing.”

Another, deeper breath.

“I just... I would've liked to know what you were thinking, you know? How you felt about what we did. Instead of you just sobbing your heart out and then having sex with Peg. You could give a guy a real complex that way.” Hawkeye ends on a slightly bitter laugh and shoves another forkful of eggs into his mouth.

“Benjamin Joseph Hunnicutt! I cannot believe you!” Peg is practically standing on her chair to look him right in the eye, and BJ is in so much trouble.

“That's his name?” Hawkeye mouths to Trapper, who shrugs exaggeratedly.

“You told me you talked to Hawkeye! That the two of you understood each other. Jesus H Christ, BJ.”

“I did talk to him!” BJ protests. “I told him I loved him! What else is there to talk about?”

Peg and Trapper exchange incredulous looks.

Hawkeye gets up to fix himself more coffee. BJ can see the tense line of his back. The way his fists clench on the counter, on the handle of the coffee pot, on the back of his chair when he sits back down at the table. How his knuckles turn white on the handle of his coffee mug.

“Ok, ok. I can see that there's still more to talk about.” BJ runs a hand through his hair. “I guess I just felt really overwhelmed, after, you know? I didn't.. I still don't know what I'm doing. And with Peg, I know what to do. How to make her feel good, show her I love her, you know?”

“Sex,” Trapper mouths at Hawkeye.

“I got scared and it was easier to just run back to what was familiar.”

“Ah.” Hawkeye nods in acceptance. In relief. Because it's not him - he's not lacking somehow in BJ's estimation. It's just that BJ was feeling insecure. Which, that's pretty damn relatable. “Thank you for explaining. And I wouldn't judge you for, for lack of experience or anything. Just because I got most of my awkward fumbling out of the way as a teenager doesn't mean I don't remember what that was like. And we're all adults here, capable of communicating.”

Hawkeye ends on a firm note, like he can will it into existence just by saying it. And Trapper is a little skeptical of that. But it's worth working towards. So.

“I think we oughtta talk about the sex part some more. Cuz it's not that I, uh, didn't have a nice time last night. But it kinda got sprung on all of us – and I think we oughtta talk about, I dunno, expectations and stuff.”

Peg raises an eyebrow at BJ. And he must not have told her about his nocturnal wanderings. Great.

“Yeah, we probably should,” Hawkeye says. With a glance at Trapper that means he knows what Trapper's getting at. That they should talk about the whole deal with BJ thinking he was gonna be some kinda Prince Charming – some kinda _savior_ to Hawkeye.

But before they can get into that whole can of worms, BJ speaks up. “See, that drives me absolutely crazy. Since we're being all honest with each other and everything. How the two of you just talk to each other like that with no words, so no one else knows what the hell you're saying to one another.” He's getting real worked up, and Peg surreptitiously slides the butter dish out of the way of his fist as it slams on the table. “Communicating like adults, my butt.”

Trapper glances to Hawkeye again, which probably doesn't help BJ's temper any. But Hawkeye knows BJ better, knows how to deal with him better. Except it don't seem like Hawkeye's gonna jump in anytime soon. Ain't sure how to handle this. So it's up to Trapper to try and explain.

“Look, BJ. We ain't trying to exclude you or nothing. It's just that me and Hawkeye lived together for a while now and we know each other pretty good because of it.”

That might be a slight understatement, if he's being honest. But BJ's pissed and Trapper don't wanna get him any more jealous and angry than he is.

“You and Hawkeye do it too, dear,” Peg pipes up. She's mostly been a silent observer through all of this, eating one of the more awkward breakfasts of her life. But, honestly.

“We do?”

“ _Yes_ , dear, you do. The two of you touch constantly. It's like... it's like you have your own little code worked out just in elbowing each other.”

They're, well, they're pretty fucking obvious. Peg is a little surprised it took BJ as long as it did to realize he was in capital-L love with Hawkeye. But he's always been pretty terrible at self reflection.

“There's no call to be, to be jealous or anything,” Hawkeye says, finally. “Just because Trapper and I are close doesn't mean you and I aren't. It's not a competition.”

BJ doesn't look like he really believes that. And that's his own deal. But, that don't mean that the judicious application of truth won't help.

So Trapper is quick to follow that up with, “And I never really got why you were jealous of  _me_ , anyway. Hawkeye's been gone on you since the day you met.”

“Really?” BJ blinks in surprise. He'd been under the impression that Trapper's leaving had more than overshadowed his arrival in Korea. Had hated Trapper's guts even more because of it. “Regardless, I had plenty of reason to be jealous of the amazing Trapper John McIntyre. You were all everyone talked about when I showed up to the 4077. Trapper John and his amazing pranks and his amazing surgery and his amazing body.” He pitches his voice into one of comical fawning adoration. It's a fairly good rendition of old Ferret Face when talking about the military industrial complex, if BJ says so himself.

Hawkeye laughs. “Who was talking about  _that_ ?”

“Did Margaret get drunk again?”

“Maybe it was Ginger, the two of you got along pretty well,” Hawkeye says with a lecherous eyebrow waggle.

And BJ really doesn't need to hear any more about Trapper's legendary prowess with the nurses. “Ok, ok, maybe I made that last part up.” Although Hawkeye had been pretty fond of reminiscing about his handsome, muscular tent-mate when he got drunk enough. “But the rest still stands. I was, I felt like I was just your replacement. Trapper version two. Everyone compared me to you – and I never felt like I measured up.”

Peg squeezes his hand in reassurance. And BJ takes a breath.

“But even more than that, I felt like... I felt like you got there first. Like you got to know parts of Hawkeye I can't know – that I can only hear about in stories. And I'm jealous that you get to know those parts of him.”

And, ok. That's a lot. A lot of stuff Trapper can't really do nothing about, since it's the past and he wasn't even there. But.

“You know parts of him that I don't know, too, BJ. Like. Like at the end, for the real bad shit. You were there for that.”

“We don't. We don't really talk about the war that much. The bad stuff, anyway,” Hawkeye says quietly. Trapper puts a comforting hand on Hawkeye's shoulder. And he unashamedly leans into it. “But it changed us – all of us – right down to our bones. And you've seen parts of me that Trapper never has. Just like he's seen parts of me you haven't. It doesn't make one more or less meaningful, I don't think.”

Peg speaks up again. A little hesitant about butting in at this emotional moment. But there's things she needs to say now. “There's parts of you I can never know, BJ. As much as, as much as you wanted to come home and pick your life right back up where you left it, you changed. I changed. We all changed. And Hawkeye knows the ways you changed, what it was that changed you, in a way I can never know.”

“Oh, Peg.” BJ sounds anguished and she takes his hand, trying to offer comfort.

“It's not a bad thing, BJ. It's just how it is – I wasn't there, I didn't experience what you went through. All I can do is listen and try to understand. But I can't _know_ , not like Hawkeye can.”

Trapper shifts a little uncomfortably. This is all hitting kinda close to home, the whole deal about you changing and your wife changing and your kids changing. The war changing you.

And he's honestly glad that BJ and Peg are making things work. Including the whole BJ also being in love with Hawkeye part – which would not have flown with Louise at  _all_ – even if it is unconventional. They deserve to be happy. To have a nice, abnormal, happy life with their kids and their dog and their white picket fence. But it's kinda a relief when the timer goes off on the coffee cake and he can escape to the kitchen to go deal with that for a while.

* * *

When he comes back to the table, they've all moved on to talking about sex again, which is a topic Trapper is much better equipped to deal with.

“So,” Peg is saying, “all three of you had sex together?”

BJ nods. Although he's not really sure that it counts as them all having sex _together_ since it had been Trapper getting him and Hawkeye off and then getting off with Hawkeye separately.

Peg raises an eyebrow at BJ's response. She's genuinely surprised that BJ would even stand to be in the same room as Trapper, much less have sex with him.

“We, uh. I walked in on them,” BJ says with a blush. “And they didn't, uh, they didn't kick me out.”

“Aw, who could kick you out?” Hawkeye asks, and pinches BJ's cheek exaggeratedly. “Besides, Trapper was right when he insinuated I wouldn't mind jumping your bones. Or having you jump mine.”

“Speaking of Trapper,” Peg says, guiding them back to the more prescient topic in her mind. Because she really doesn't want the elephant in the room, so to speak, coming back to bite them all later. “Where does he fit in all of this? Because my understanding was that BJ and Hawkeye were an item and Trapper and Hawkeye were an item, but not all three of you at once.”

Trapper shrugs. “I don't really mind either way. But I gotta say, BJ, I think we oughtta set the record straight about what exactly kinda relationship you think Hawkeye and I have. Especially if the two of us are gonna fuck.”

BJ blushes. And it ain't real clear if it's from embarrassment or something else. “I know I was wrong about how you, how you and Hawkeye are. How you treat Hawkeye. It's just that, uh, you're really... manly, ok? Just stupidly movie-star handsome. Cocky. A real tom-cat. And everyone at the 4077 talked about how much you slept around with all the nurses – while you were sleeping with Hawkeye, apparently. And Hawkeye deserves better than that!”

“Oh, BJ. That's very sweet.” Hawkeye lays a hand on his arm. “And I absolutely deserve men falling at my feet. Worshiping me a la Helen of Troy.”

Peg thinks that's a particularly telling metaphor, given that Helen had been whisked away from her husband by Paris when he'd been staying at her home, under the geas of hospitality. She can only hope that _this_ little visit doesn't launch a decades long war. Because it's obvious that they won't be able to resolve everything today – there's just too much baggage to be cleared up with a single conversation.

It does bode well that they're talking things through, though.

“But,” Hawkeye continues, “Trapper and I both knew that Korea wasn't – couldn't – be more than a fling.”

“I was married, for Chrissakes.” And not to a woman as _understanding_ as Peg Hunnicutt.

“And I was going to go home to Crabapple Cove and get married and take over my dad's practice and have a bunch of kids and a white picket fence. There was no room for anything but friendship and, and a fun romp.”

“And it was an awful lotta fun.” Trapper's smirk could best be described as lethal.

And BJ just doesn't understand. “You didn't think. I mean, you knew it wasn't going to be forever? And you still slept together?” Why?

“Yeah.” Trapper shrugs. “I mean, the sex was good. Why wouldn't we?”

“I know you didn't really go in for casual sex, Beej, but it was a way to feel alive in the middle of the horror and death and, and just plain misery. A way to stay sane.” Hawkeye's tone is plaintive. And BJ doesn't know if it's because of the memories this conversation is bringing up or because he wants BJ to understand.

But BJ cannot understand. “So that makes it ok? That Trapper slept around on you? That Trapper cheated on his wife?”

“Look, I ain't proud of cheating on Louise. It was shitty of me to do. But what? You want me to do penance? I've done that. Said a whole chorus of Ave Marias. Apologized to her. Gotten a fucking divorce cuz I couldn't, cuz I couldn't find a way to reach back out to her after I got home.”

Trapper takes a breath. Settles down from the pitched intensity he'd reached. Continues, calmer. “But if you want me to regret it. If you want me to agonize over it – I can't. Cuz it's in the past and there's nothing I can do to change it.”

BJ doesn't know what to say in response to that. Can't imagine what it's like not to agonize over every mistake. Over his infidelity. His betrayal of his wife's trust.

His wife who's laying a gentle hand on BJ's arm. “I know you're in things for the long haul, BJ. That when you love someone you love them wholly and completely. That's why, well, that's why I was so ok with all of this, I think. I know that just because you love Hawkeye that way doesn't mean you love me any less.”

BJ nods. He loves her so, so much.

“But not everyone is like that, Beej. I've had plenty of sex with people I didn't particularly care about – or even know the name of. And obviously this is different. This is love. And I'm glad I get to have this with you – with both of you. But that doesn't make me regret the other kind of sex, or think it's bad or anything.”

“I don't – I can't agree with that,” BJ says quietly. “But I'm glad to know that this is different. That it means something. That it's not just a, a fling. A sordid affair.”

Hawkeye takes BJ's hand. “Nothing sordid about it, Beej.” And then, with a flamboyant clasp of BJ's hand to his chest, exclaims, “I'm ready for you to make an honest woman out of me.”

And that breaks the tension pretty well. So Peg takes BJ's other hand and they sit there for a while in comfortable understanding.

* * *

“So I'm pretty sure that means you don't wanna fuck me,” Trapper says, after what he figures is a reasonable interval for sentimentality. “Cuz of us not being in love and all.”

Which is fine. Trapper doesn't particularly care. He just wants all this hashed out in a way that everyone can live with.

And for Hawkeye to hopefully get his rocks off with BJ sometime in the near future. Cuz otherwise, it's kinda a wasted trip.

BJ blushes. Because the thing is, is that he actually kind of does want to fuck Trapper.

He's, well, he's hot, ok. Trapper's objectively attractive. Seeing him naked, feeling his hand on your naked skin – that would get anyone a little hot under the collar. BJ's only human.

And there's the other part of this, too. “You'd, um, you'd be ok with me being the one to... lead, so to speak?”

Trapper laughs. “You mean, am I ok with taking it up the ass?” He shrugs. “I figured you'd prefer it to the other way around.”

“And if you ever do want to try it the other way,” Hawkeye says, “you'll probably want to start out on a beginner model. Work your way up.”

Peg arches a single, elegant eyebrow.

And Trapper shrugs nonchalantly. Like he's saying, “Yeah, my dicks huge. What can you do.”

And Jesus Christ. Is everything about him built just to bring out BJ's insecurities? Apparently yes.

But back to the matter at hand. “It's just. You don't really seem like the type to, uh...”

Trapper sighs. Cuz they're back at this thing again. “Look, I know you got some kinda idea that – how do I say this – that I'm the man and Hawkeye's the woman and that, that I gotta be the one in charge cuz of it. That I can't want to be, or enjoy being, the one “following.” Like it would be... like it would be _too_ queer.” Trapper laughs a little bitterly. “Well, I got some news for you on that front.”

And ok. That's fair. Walking in on a guy with another man's cock in his mouth doesn't really leave a lot of room for ambiguity. But it's just that, “Hawkeye's always, um, making jokes about being a wife or getting pregnant or that kind of thing. So I thought...”

“We were all like that?” Hawkeye teases. “Fey and flamboyant and feminine?”

And sure, if Hawkeye's literally his only frame of reference, Trapper can see how he'd figure that.

Hawkeye raises an exceptionally camp hand to his chest. “While I admit that I prefer to be on the receiving end, shall we say, that doesn't mean I don't like it the other way, too. I like a little variety. I wouldn't want to be _boring_.”

Peg laughs. “I don't think anyone can accuse you of _that_.”

Hawkeye grins at her. “You are a very astute woman, Mrs. Hunnicutt. Which is why I have one final question.” Because all the heavy, difficult stuff has been worked through well enough and they can afford to lighten the mood a little. “How did you figure out BJ's real name? He refuses to tell me and it's been driving me nuts!”

Peg leans in and lowers her voice conspiratorially. “You know, we've been married for years and he won't tell me either. So I've just been making some up whenever I need to full name him.”

Hawkeye leans back expansively in his seat and grins pointedly at BJ. “Making names up, huh? What an excellent idea.”

And BJ foresees months of letters addressed to Beelzebub Jehoshaphat or similar. He smiles despite himself. And it probably looks ridiculously sappy, but he can't find it in himself to mind.

* * *

While Hawkeye and BJ are having a moment, Trapper clears all the breakfast dishes and brings out the coffee cake. And, cuz they're prolly all talked out about the difficult, emotional shit, he herds them all out to the living room where it's a little more open and spread out. Though he still ends up crammed onto the couch with the other three, Hawkeye half in his lap and half draped over BJ, who's trying very hard not to elbow Peg in the face as he eats.

And he wouldn't say it's comfortable. Not yet. But it feels like maybe it could get to be that way.


	14. Aloha (and other ways of saying both Hello and Goodbye)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy folks. Sorry this took me like three weeks to post.  
> This chapter contains explicit sex between Hawkeye and Trapper with BJ watching AND explicit sex between Hawkeye and BJ. If this isn't your thing, you can skip to the first page break. Everything after that is schmaltz.

“Well,” Peg says once Hawkeye and Trapper have retreated to the kitchen to wash up the breakfast dishes, leaving her and BJ alone in the living room. “It seems like we hashed out a lot of the relevant details for this... web of relationships. Not that there won't be more to talk about in the future,” she's quick to add, lest BJ decide they're done for good. Peg refuses to give him an excuse to go back to the evasiveness and jealousy of his first year back from Korea. “But for now, we've talked things through – resolved things – enough.”

BJ nods, relieved.

Because this morning had been tough. If he never has to bare his soul like that again, it will be too soon.

But it was worth it to clear the air. To see where exactly he stands with Hawkeye – and Peg. To have proof that he means as much to Hawkeye as Hawkeye does to him. And proof that Peg is with him in this – by his side for this – just like she is for everything else.

“So,” Peg continues, oblivious to BJ's internal musings. “What comes next?”

And that's the question, isn't it.

BJ sighs. “We should probably head home soon, huh?”

Because as much as he could spend a year, ten years - the rest of his life - learning this new, at peace version of Hawkeye, BJ still doesn't want to overstay his welcome. And even though he has summers off – other than supervising all of his research students – that doesn't mean Hawkeye doesn't have to work. Hawkeye can't just take a whole week off to spend with BJ on a whim.

Peg nods in agreement. “Tomorrow morning, maybe. I'll see what the travel agent can pull together.”

She's almost out of the room – on her way to ask Hawkeye if she can borrow the phone, probably – when BJ calls after her. “Um, Peg? Before we leave, I'd really like to, uh...”

Peg arches a knowing eyebrow. “Sleep with Hawkeye again?”

BJ nods, a little embarrassed. “Yeah, I'd, uh. I'd really like that.”

It's not like they've even really _slept together_ slept together. His first sexual encounter with Hawkeye was pretty embarrassingly short. And his second had mostly involved Hawkeye and Trapper. And BJ will damned if he lets that be the last thing that happens between him and Hawkeye for who knows how long.

“Well, fortunately for you, Honoria invited me to spend some time with her if I got sick of you boys. I'll give her a call after the travel agent, see if she wants to cause some havoc in downtown Boston.” Peg grins conspiratorially. “That should give you plenty of time to make a move.”

BJ takes Peg's hand. Squeezes it, trying to communicate just how grateful and in love he is. “You know I'm not very good at that. I don't even have a sailboat to pull him out of.”

“Then I'll just have to help you,” Peg says with a grin. And then she pecks BJ on the lips and rushes out of the living room before he has quite figured out what she means.

When the penny drops, BJ springs up from the sofa and rushes after her. “Peg! No! Wait a minute, don't you dare-”

But he's too late.

“BJ wants to fuck you before we go home tomorrow.”

Hawkeye straightens from where he'd been bent down to listen to Peg's not really very quiet whisper to look right at BJ. And his smile could best be described as predatory. “Does he now?”

“Bout fucking time,” Trapper mutters under his breath. Cuz really, how long does it take two guys who wanna fuck each other to actually fuck? He and Hawkeye had swapped hand jobs in the shower a week after Trapper's arrival in Korea – the first time Trapper'd caught him taking an unmistakable peek over the shower partition. And they'd swapped blow jobs in supply the day after.

BJ blushes. “Uh, I wouldn't have phrased it exactly like that.” But he isn't denying it.

Hawkeye raises an eyebrow at Trapper who shrugs.

“Well, I'm certainly amenable to that plan, Beej.” Hawkeye puts his hand on BJ's shoulder gently, carefully.

And, miracle of miracles, BJ pulls him in for a tentative kiss. A kiss that quickly grows more heated. The situation apparently well in hand, Peg leaves the room, making a beeline for the telephone.

“All right, BJ,” Hawkeye says when they've broken apart – minutes or hours or possibly years later. “How exactly do you see this going?”

“I'll clear out for the afternoon if you want some privacy,” Trapper offers. He figures that's prolly what Peg's planning on. And he don't mind spending another day playing chaperon and tour-guide for her.

BJ looks down, embarrassed. “Look, I know things aren't how I thought they were between the two of you. But, uh, I'd still... I still think it would be nice if Trapper had sex with you first, Hawkeye. And then I did. Because I'm still not – I still don't really know what I'm doing, you know?”

Trapper shrugs easily. “Sure, fine by me.”

But he pulls Hawkeye aside to whisper, “I dunno if I can be mean like BJ wants, though. I don't wanna hurt you, Hawk. Even for a game.”

Hawkeye brings a hand up to cup Trapper's cheek. “You know the week I had you help me keep my hands off my dick? You kind of manhandled me, tossed me down on the bed and pinned me there?”

Trapper nods. “I remember.” Oh, God, does he ever remember.

“I really liked that.” Hawkeye brings Trapper's hand down to his crotch, to feel where he's half hard just from thinking about it. “Really, really liked that. And I'd enjoy it if you did that again. Ok?”

“Ok.” Trapper gives Hawkeye's dick a firm squeeze. A promise of things to come. “I think I can manage that – since you liked it so much and all.”

Trapper's cocky smirk is firmly back in place and Hawkeye kisses his stupidly adorable overbite.

BJ clears his throat awkwardly.

“All right then,” Hawkeye says briskly, clapping his hands together as he spins around to face BJ again. “I'm going to go take a shower. Talk amongst yourselves.”

BJ looks uncertainly at Trapper. Who just slings a dishtowel at BJ and gestures at the sink with his shoulder. “You can dry - since my previous assistant ran off on me!”

Hawkeye blows Trapper a kiss in response to his pointed commentary. Trapper laughs and flips him off. BJ wonders if this was actually such a good idea – he's used to a little less screwing around in his, well, screwing.

But Trapper's offering an olive branch of sorts in this towel. And he wants this to work out – for all of them, really. So BJ steps up next to him at the sink and they spend a not entirely uncomfortable time finishing the washing up and chatting with Peg while she waits for Honoria to show up.

And then Peg whisks out the door with on a peel of Honoria's bubbling laughter. And BJ goes upstairs to help Trapper get things set up for the three of them to have sex. Which is kind of weird, if he's being honest. When he and Peg have sex, there really isn't a lot of set up or anything. Some romancing, sure – but not anything this involved.

Trapper's laid out towels on the bed, “So nobody has to lay in a wet spot or change the sheets after.” And now he's carrying an armchair over next to the bed – an armchair that has a cushion on it that BJ's pretty certain is the one Trapper was kneeling on while he blew Hawkeye. An armchair that's positioned to give an excellent view of the bed.

BJ shivers in anticipation as Trapper moves him bodily out of the way and pushes him down into the chair so he can go digging through the drawer of the bedside table. A drawer that contains condoms and Vaseline - and surgical gloves, for whatever reason – which Trapper sets on the table, in easy reach. But he also catches a glimpse of what looks like a fake cock, a pair of handcuffs, and several objects BJ can't identify.

And he's back to feeling like this may have been a bit of a mistake. Like he's jumped the gun just a touch. Because both Trapper and Hawkeye clearly know what they're doing here – and it's going to be equally obvious that BJ has no fucking clue.

Then Hawkeye emerges from the bathroom in a black silk robe that barely reaches mid-thigh and all uncertainties – all thoughts – disappear.

Hawkeye looks so fucking gorgeous. BJ has to sit on his hands to keep from reaching out for him. To keep from pulling Hawkeye down into his lap so he can untie the belt of the robe. So he can strip Hawkeye bare - so he can _see_ him, naked and hard and beautiful.

But he doesn't want to overstep.

Trapper obviously has no such compunctions about keeping his hands to himself. As soon as Hawkeye's through the door, Trapper grabs him by the hips, pulls him flush against his body, and kisses him deep and filthy. Hard. Bruising.

And Hawkeye throws a leg over Trapper's hip, revealing even more pale, perfect skin. And Trapper shifts his bruising grip to Hawkeye's ass, pulls him closer still, until there's no space at all between their bodies. Until Hawkeye's cock has to be getting crushed against Trapper's unyielding body as they grind together.

BJ's fingers grip bruises into his own thighs.

“How's that for manhandling?” Trapper asks into the join of Hawkeye's neck, where he's currently trying to leave a hickey dark and deep enough it'll last a week.

“Pretty good,” Hawkeye gasps as Trapper laves his tongue over the bruised flesh of his neck. “But I think we can do even better, don't you?”

And before Trapper can do much more than raise a questioning eyebrow at Hawkeye, he leaps into Trapper's arms - long, long legs wrapping around his waist and long fingers gripping tight to Trapper's shoulders. And Trapper catches him. Holds him tight and close and Hawkeye's gonna have bruises shaped like Trapper's fingers all over his ass.

God, it's so fucking hot.

BJ unzips his fly as Trapper kisses Hawkeye again, deep and endless, while he backs him up against the door until it latches shut. His biceps look huge like this, every strand of muscle and sinew prominently visible as Trapper kneads at Hawkeye's ass. And Hawkeye's back is a gorgeous arch, the robe slipping off his shoulders as he presents his chest to Trapper's bruising mouth.

Trapper trails kisses all over Hawkeye's chest, licking and biting at the revealed nipple – and relishing Hawkeye's gasp as his teeth scrape across it. But Trapper's exploration is stymied by the robe still covering most of Hawkeye's chest.

“Hold on tight, honey. I'm gonna get you naked.”

Hawkeye laughs a little breathlessly. But he still manages to sound sarcastic when he says, “I bet that line's a real winner with the girls, huh, Trap.”

“It's a good thing you're so easy then, isn't it? I don't even gotta smooth talk you – just get my hands and mouth on you and you fucking melt.” And Trapper moves his hand to brace at the middle of Hawkeye's back. Brings his other hand down between their bodies to untie the belt at Hawkeye's waist.

And Hawkeye proves Trapper's point by melting. He turns boneless and blissful, held up only by Trapper's strong arm and the door. He moans as Trapper's knuckles brush against his cock – light and accidental and a perfect tease.

And Trapper obviously takes this as a signal to move their little show along, gripping Hawkeye's ass bruising and perfect before whipping around and making his way over to the bed quickly enough that Hawkeye has to cling to his broad shoulders and narrow waist. Trapper's going to have his own collection of bruises before the night is over – and Hawkeye takes no little satisfaction in that fact.

Trapper strides over to the bed and throws Hawkeye down with enough force that he bounces slightly before he lands, sprawled and grinning up at Trapper, his dick a hard red line against his stomach. And then Trapper's practically ripping the robe off of Hawkeye's shoulders, clearly impatient to get on with things. BJ has to grip his own aching cock at the sight. Hawkeye just looks so good like this - naked and aroused and at Trapper's mercy.

A Trapper who has unbuttoned the fly of his jeans and is currently pulling his t-shirt off in a way that highlights every line of his abs, every muscle of his arms. BJ is bigger than him, more muscular – but Trapper is leaner and nearly hairless and BJ can see the sharp outline of every single muscle.

And Trapper is posing, slightly. Flexing subtly. Angling himself to show it all off to best effect.

It should look contrived. Performative. But instead, it looks sensually authoritative. Cocky. Perfect.

BJ gives himself a quick stroke. Hawkeye's thighs have fallen even further open. And he's scratching his nails lightly over the skin of his inner thighs - using barely any pressure and staying well away from his cock – but touching himself all the same. It's like foreplay, almost, the way they're weaving anticipation and arousal between the two of them. And all without even touching.

Hawkeye moans as Trapper unzips his fly – wound to a fevered pitch by all the kissing and touching and teasing. He's more than ready to get to the part where Trapper's naked and opening him up and fucking him.

And he'll be damned if he's going to wait any longer to get what he wants.

BJ kneads at his cock as Hawkeye crawls across the bed on hands and knees – God, he looks sexy like that. And then Hawkeye places his hands on Trapper's hips, pulling him right against the edge of the bed, gripping the waist of his jeans and shorts together. Drags them down Trapper's thighs slowly, so, so slowly. Stripping Trapper like its part worship and part unwrapping the best present he's ever received.

BJ leans in, on tenterhooks despite himself. He wants to see. Wants to know.

Trapper's cock slaps against his stomach. And holy shit. Hawkeye was not exaggerating in the slightest. He's _huge_ – dick jutting out hard and proud and just unfairly big.

BJ's cock jerks in his hand.

Trapper steps out of his clothes and kneels on the bed – pushing so far into Hawkeye's space that he has to sit back on his haunches to give Trapper enough room. And then Trapper's pulling Hawkeye into another bruising kiss. And he's got his hand wrapped around both of their cocks, squeezing in a rhythm that BJ finds himself copying on his own dick. The juxtaposition between the two of them is just really, really hot, ok? And so is the way Hawkeye's head tips back in ecstasy and his hips thrust up into Trapper's grip as Trapper sucks a bruise right under the corner of his jaw.

And then Trapper is pushing Hawkeye back to fall sprawling at his feet. His dick drags against the soft skin of Hawkeye's stomach as he reaches for the slick and the surgical glove he'd left on the bedside table.

Hawkeye shivers in anticipation. He'd fingered himself in the shower – both to speed things along during the main event and because he's only human and the thought of having both Trapper and BJ in bed with him – inside of him – was too good _not_ to touch himself while thinking about. So he's more than ready to get just absolutely railed.

But despite the previous prep, Trapper goes slow. Stretches Hawkeye thoroughly. Adds one finger at a time, pressing in in stages. Just really draws things out unnecessarily.

Hawkeye slams his fist down on the mattress in frustration. “C'mon Trap, just give it to me already.”

“I'll give it to ya when I'm good and ready to give it to ya, Hawk.” Trapper's voice is forceful, brooking no argument.

But he jerks his head to where BJ is watching him finger Hawkeye open with the sort of rapt attention you'd expect from a med student in exploratory – albeit one with an erection hanging out of his pants. BJ looks like he'd be taking notes if he had paper and pencil. And, ok, it is better for him to learn how to do this right instead of thinking he can just shove a couple fingers – or, God forbid, his cock - right in. Even if that's what Hawkeye really wishes Trapper would do right about now.

“Ugh, fine. But you're making up for this when we fuck.”

Trapper finally – finally - thrusts his fingers against Hawkeye's prostate and he arches off the bed, electrified.

“Don't worry, honey.” Trapper grins up at Hawkeye from between his thighs. “I plan on plowing you right through the fucking mattress.”

Hawkeye shudders. “I'll hold you to that.”

And that's the last semi-coherent sentence Hawkeye is capable of for a while. Because Trapper is rubbing right at the edge of his prostate, teasing him until he's a writhing, gasping mess. Until all he can do is lay there helplessly and beg for more.

It's wonderful. He was a fool to complain.

And then Trapper must figure he's teased Hawkeye enough, because he's pulling out, stripping off the glove and tossing it in the garbage can.

So he wasn't that foolish. Because as good as that was, what's coming next is going to be even better.

Hawkeye scrabbles blindly behind him for the condoms on the night stand, desperate to move things along. But he catches sight of BJ – with his cock out and naked desire in his eyes. And Hawkeye slows his mad scramble. Turns his movements deliberate and sultry. Because he's nothing if not a showman. And what better audience than one BJ Hunnicutt.

“Want to see a neat trick, Beej?”

At BJ's eager nod, Hawkeye kneels up, opens the condom, and puts it on the head of Trapper's cock. And then he wraps his lips around Trapper and takes him all the way down to the root.

Which, Jesus Christ.

Hawkeye hums happily. He's always loved this trick – both for how impressive it looks and for how good it feels to have his lips stretched wide around the base of Trapper's cock. How good it feels to have Trapper's thighs flexing under his hands and knowing it's because he's trying desperately to keep still – to keep from fucking Hawkeye's throat until he comes.

How good it feels when Trapper fists his hand in his hair. Holds him down and lets him gag on his cock a few times before pulling him off.

And then Trapper pushes Hawkeye down onto the bed. Grabs him by the hips and flips him over so that he's face down, his cheek pressed against the mattress, his hips held up in Trapper's bruising grip. And then finally, finally! Trapper's fucking into him in one long hard thrust. Hawkeye moans into the bedspread as Trapper's hips slap against his ass.

BJ has to grip himself hard at the base of his aching cock. Because  _Jesus Christ_ .

He knows this isn't real – how rough Trapper is being with Hawkeye. He knows it's a show put on mostly for his benefit. But that doesn't make it any less the fulfillment of a fantasy he's held secret and unvoiced for years now.

Though a part of him wonders if he shouldn't have stayed in the other room. Listened to Hawkeye and Trapper fuck through the wall like he does in his dreams.

Because Trapper and Hawkeye have been at this for at least half an hour and they're only just now getting to the actual sex. And BJ doesn't know if he's going to survive until Trapper finishes and he gets a turn. Not with the way Hawkeye's cock is dripping onto the towel beneath him. Not with the way he's making these sweet hitched little gasps, like he's too far gone to speak – a state BJ has never seen him in before. And not with Trapper pounding into Hawkeye, forceful and rough, but also like he could keep it up for hours.

BJ's a little ashamed to admit, even if only to himself, that in his fantasies about the two of them fucking, Trapper doesn't last very long. Just a few minutes of jackrabbiting hips – just enough to get Hawkeye wound to a fevered pitch – before he spills. Leaving Hawkeye unsatisfied. Leaving BJ to swoop in and pick up the pieces.

It's the nightmares about this scenario – if something so erotic can even be called a nightmare - where Trapper lasts and lasts and lasts. Makes Hawkeye beg for more, delirious with desire. All while BJ's glued to the guestroom bed, forced to listen through the wall as they fuck.

So maybe it is better this way, where he's an active participant – even if it's only as a voyeur. Where he gets to see exactly what it is that Trapper's doing with his hips to get Hawkeye to moan like that. Where he gets to see the way Hawkeye is pressed down into the mattress with each hard thrust.

It's certainly going to give BJ a lot of new fantasy material to tide him over until he sees Hawkeye again. And some ideas for what to try when it's his turn.

Because he wants this. Wants Hawkeye a begging, blissful mess under him more than he's wanted just about anything in his life. Wants it so bad he aches.

Hawkeye can hear the slick sounds of BJ jerking himself off even over the slap of Trapper's hips against his ass. And that's honestly pretty impressive, cuz Trapper's really giving it to him. So of course he turns to look – difficult as it is to get his body to do anything other than lay there in a fucked-out puddle of limbs.

But it is so, so worth it to see BJ, knees spread wide, leaning in to watch Hawkeye get railed as his hand slides slick and tight over his hard cock.

The sight makes Hawkeye's own cock ache. He reaches a hand down his heaving body to give himself just a little bit of relief. And Trapper's hand cracks down sharp and stinging on his ass.

“No!” Trapper barks. “You gotta wait to come on BJ's cock.” And he pins Hawkeye's wayward hand to the mattress.

Fuck. Hawkeye's muscles clench and his dick jerks, hard. But he doesn't come.

BJ grips himself hard. Trapper shouldn't be allowed to _say_ things like that. It's like something out of a bad porno. Like something out of BJ's deepest fantasies. _Fuck_.

And now Hawkeye's whining things like, “Please, Trap.” And, “I need it so bad.” And, “Just fuck me already.”

And he's fucking himself back onto Trapper's cock like a man possessed.

Trapper plasters himself along Hawkeye's back. Stills his frantic pace. Grins bright and cocky as the short, sharp thrusts of his hips rock him and Hawkeye together – a rhythm that leaves no space at all between their bodies.

“You ain't the one running the show, sweetheart. And I'd be an idiot not to wanna savor this.”

Trapper grinds his hips deep and slow against Hawkeye's ass. Emphasizing exactly what it is that he's savoring.

And then says quieter, for Hawkeye's ears only, “Every time we get to do this is a fucking gift. And I ain't gonna squander it.”

Hawkeye grips Trapper's hand tight. He can't – doesn't have the words right now. He can't...

Trapper kisses Hawkeye's jaw, right below his ear. Right where he'd sucked a bruise earlier. And BJ wonder's if this isn't the end of their game. If things won't turn sappy and loving and tender the way they'd been last night.

Then Trapper bites at Hawkeye's earlobe and Hawkeye moans as he melts deeper into the mattress and they're back in character.

“But you're right, Hawk. I don't wanna be selfish.” Trapper thrusts once, hard – nailing Hawkeye's prostate. “Gotta give BJ his turn at your sweet little ass.”

Hawkeye wails into the cradle of his arms.

Trapper bites once more at the hickey at the join of Hawkeye's neck. Peels himself off of Hawkeye's back. And fucks into Hawkeye hard enough that he's pushed forward across the bed a little bit.

BJ moans in concert with Hawkeye.

Fuck but that's hot.

Hawkeye under him, sweet and open and begging for it. And all Trapper's gotta do is get off. All he's gotta think about is the tight heat of Hawkeye's body. The slick squelch of lube and sharp slap of skin on skin. The sweet, sharp ache building at the base of his cock.

God, it's so fucking good.

Trapper's thrusts speed up. And he's got his eyes closed, his head thrown back in ecstasy. It looks like prayer. It looks like the deepest debauchery.

BJ starts to shimmy out of his clothes – an operation made more difficult by him not wanting to take his hand off his dick for even a second. But Trapper's got to be getting close. He's flushed right down to his cock and his breath is coming in short pants.

But unlike Hawkeye, who's begging - nonsensically and muffled from being fucked through the mattress - in a constant litany, Trapper's completely silent. Just the sound of his ragged breathing and the pistoning of his hips.

Until he breathes out a soft, “Fuck,” and spills. Slumps forward across Hawkeye's back. Still gripping him tight, Trapper's hips jerk helplessly as he comes and comes and comes.

Trapper takes a minute to catch his breath. But Hawkeye's twitching with the effort of staying still, letting him ride out the aftershocks. And he's still so painfully hard – Trapper can't leave him like that. Not while BJ's waiting in the wings – mostly stripped and looking like he's about three seconds away from coming himself – waiting to give Hawkeye what he needs.

So Trapper slips out of Hawkeye and out of bed. Tosses the condom. Slaps BJ on the back, a kind of tagging him in. Cuz he's just sitting there, half outta his clothes, looking a little lost.

And Hawkeye must see the same thing, cuz he turns over, opening his arms to accept BJ – practically ushering him onto the bed.

BJ joins him after a second of blinking non-comprehension. And it looks like Hawk's got things well in hand here, so Trapper pulls on some pants and gets ready to get lost. Cuz BJ might be a voyeur, but he sure don't seem like an exhibitionist – not for his first time.

But Trapper turns at the door. Flashes Hawkeye the ok sign in question – just to make sure. And when Hawkeye returns the gesture behind BJ's back, Trapper slips out of the room, closing the door softly behind him, and heads downstairs to get some yard work done.

Cuz it looks like BJ and Hawkeye have got this figured out. But Trapper doesn't want to go too far. Just in case BJ freaks out again - runs out on Hawkeye again - and he's gotta go wrangle them back into bed.

Trapper don't mind Hawkeye having another man in his bed - honestly, he don't. But he kinda wishes he'd picked one just a little less high strung.

BJ's nervous again. He's holding a naked Hawkeye in his arms and it's wonderful and amazing and something he never thought he could even hope for. But now that Trapper's gone – now that BJ's expected to actually participate, not just watch – he's getting anxious.

And Hawkeye must pick up on it. Because he cups BJ's face, gentle and comforting. “We can go as slow as you want, BJ. Do as much or as little as you want.”

BJ grimaces, embarrassed at himself. So close to his dream of making love to Hawkeye – and unable to just take the damn plunge.

“Maybe... Can I kiss you?” He feels like he can do that at least.

Hawkeye smiles at BJ, warm and open. “Any time you want, Beej.” And then Hawkeye leans in and kisses BJ sweet and soft on the lips.

It's gentle. Not tentative, but... undemanding. Hawkeye's letting BJ set the pace, here, and he loves him for it.

BJ kisses him back. Deeper and more sensual. Because they've done this before – just the once, but it's familiar ground. And really, really nice. Hawkeye's lips soft against his. And he can feel Hawkeye smile against his mouth.

BJ loves him so deeply it hurts – a beautiful ache right behind his sternum.

He deepens the kiss further. Presses into Hawkeye's mouth. Relishes the way Hawkeye hums in enjoyment and presses back.

BJ cradles the back of Hawkeye's head in his hand and pulls him into his lap. And God, he's got Hawkeye naked and in his lap. BJ's dick twitches and he pulls Hawkeye closer still, until they're plastered together, pressing against one another like they can join into one person if they just try hard enough.

And fuck. Hawkeye's cock is rubbing against BJ's own and it's too much. And not anywhere close to enough.

BJ breaks the kiss, pressing his forehead against Hawkeye's. “Please, Hawk. I want you so badly.” But he's not even sure what exactly to ask for.

Fortunately, Hawkeye knows what he's doing. He kisses BJ once more on the mouth – light, but full of promise - before turning to the night stand to grab another condom.

And he puts it on BJ the same way he did for Trapper. And BJ can't help himself. It just feels too good. He fists a hand in Hawkeye's hair, holds him down, fucks up into his throat – chases that sweet, sweet release.

At least until Hawkeye reaches up to unwind BJ's fingers from his hair. And then he's pulling off BJ's cock – and BJ has to stifle a moan of disappointment.

Hawkeye kisses the head of BJ's cock in apology. But, “As much as I'd like for you to fuck my throat until you come, I think you're after something a little different, huh Beej?”

BJ nods. And how could he have forgotten? “Please, Hawk.”

Hawkeye lays on his back. Spreads his legs invitingly and grins up at BJ. Who's dick is standing red and hard from his undone fly.

“Well, step one would be getting naked. C'mon, Beej. No need to be shy – I've seen it all before.” Hawkeye waggles his eyebrows lecherously. “And it sure didn't disappoint.”

BJ struggles out of his pants and socks – and he's gratified by Hawkeye's lingering once-over. He may even admit to preening a little. Flexing like Trapper had, just to really show off the goods.

And then Hawkeye's pulling him down onto the bed. Down onto Hawkeye. And he's guiding BJ's cock – lining him up to press into him, til the head of his cock is _inside_ of Hawkeye. And Jesus Christ that feels good.

Hawkeye moans and does a little shimmy with his hips, so it must feel good to him too.

BJ places his hands tentatively on Hawkeye's hips. And his fingers fall into the bruises Trapper left on Hawkeye's skin. The undeniable proof that he was there first.

BJ's hips slam into Hawkeye.

Hawkeye moans and his dick drips against his stomach. “Mmm, yeah, Beej. Just like that.”

BJ pulls out and thrusts in again, as rough as before. He'd meant for this to be slow, tender. Making love. But he honestly can't help himself – not with how good it feels. Not with the way Hawkeye's flushed and panting and begging for more.

Not with all the marks littering his skin proving that Trapper had fucked him rough and hard and _first_.

He kisses experimentally at Hawkeye's neck. And when that causes him to moan and arch further into BJ, he bites it. Leaves a mark that mirrors the one Trapper left before.

Proof that BJ was here too.

Hawkeye moans and rolls his hips back against BJ's. Pulls him deeper.

BJ tightens his grip on Hawkeye's hips and thrusts in again and again and again. Hawkeye is spread out underneath him, flushed and grinning. His chest thrust up by his arching back – and his nipples are tight peaks, just begging for BJ to bite them.

He does. And Hawkeye arches underneath him. Pressing himself against BJ. Pressing himself further into BJ's hungry mouth.

BJ's hips snap hard against Hawkeye's. And he's got his face buried in Hawkeye's tits like he can't get enough. Hawkeye shudders in pleasure so deep it's almost painful. He's been on edge for what feels like hours now and it aches so sweetly.

“Please, BJ. I'm so close.” And Hawkeye reaches for his cock again.

BJ knocks his hand away, like Trapper had done. But not because he wants to deny Hawkeye. Because he wants to be the one to bring Hawkeye over the edge. Him and him alone responsible for Hawkeye's release.

He wraps his hand around Hawkeye's dick. And it's... different. A different size, a different shape. A different angle. The fact that Hawkeye's circumcised.

But when he strokes experimentally and Hawkeye moans, BJ feels buoyed. Like he can do this. He can make Hawkeye feel good.

Fuck. BJ's got his hand on Hawkeye's dick and his dick inside Hawkeye – rougher and deeper and harder than he'd expected. Like the fantasy fuck he'd spun out with Trapper, back before Hawkeye had realized he could actually have this in real life. And fuck but the real thing feels good.

He fondles his own tits, since BJ's hands are otherwise occupied. And he's so close. He needs just a little something more to push him over the edge.

Hawkeye is flushed and writhing and he's got a nipple twisted between pinching fingers. BJ's thrusts speed up. And his grip tightens on Hawkeye's cock.

He's so close. But he'll be damned if he comes before Hawkeye does.

BJ swipes his thumb at the head of Hawkeye's dick. Right in the slit, where he's dripping.

Hawkeye screams. That was it – what he needed. His back arches and his thighs are vice tight around BJ's hips as he shakes apart.

BJ fucks short and sharp and hard into Hawkeye – once, twice, and he comes too. Endless and overwhelming and perfect.

He holds himself up, catching his breath while Hawkeye does the same under him. And then he's pulling out of Hawkeye and slipping off the condom. And Hawkeye's pulling him back down onto the bed. Back on top of him. And they're kissing, tender and loving. And it's everything BJ hadn't dared hope for.

He gathers Hawkeye in his arms. Holds him. Moves him so that they're laying on their sides, with BJ spooning behind Hawkeye. This is one half of everything he's ever wanted, right here in his arms. BJ kisses Hawkeye on the shoulder and presses closer against him.

* * *

Trapper has mowed the lawn, weeded the flowerbeds, and stayed to chat with Mrs. O'Grady from next door – and boy but she can really get a good half hour's material outta just the weather, much less her kids and numerous other family members and ladies she knows from church. So it's been a good hour or so since Trapper'd left Hawkeye and BJ to it. And he figures they're prolly finished by now and he won't be interrupting anything but the afterglow if he heads inside.

And maybe BJ'd rather he weren't there. But he's sick of being sweaty and sticky and grass stained and he wants a shower, damn it. So BJ's just gonna have to deal.

“Oh, thank God,” Hawkeye exclaims as soon as he opened the bedroom door. “You've got to help me, Trapper. I'm trapped.”

“Jesus Christ, Hawk. That was terrible.”

Hawkeye grins up at him, unrepentant. And then wriggles ineffectually in BJ's grasp.

He really is trapped. Pinned under a snoozing BJ's big, muscular arm. And ordinarily, he'd be loving this. In fact, he'd loved it for oh, the first twenty minutes or so. But now he really, really wants a shower.

“Please, Trapper.” Hawkeye looks pleadingly at him. “I really, really want a shower.”

“Tough shit, Hawk. I want a shower too. And since I'm not the one currently trapped in my lover's steely embrace, I'm gonna go take one.” Trapper's grin is shit eating. Hawkeye hates him, just a little bit.

On the other hand, Trapper's usually pretty reasonable – given the right motivation. “I'm sorry about the terrible name pun. I promise to never do it again.” Hawkeye attempts to look contrite.

“We both know that's a filthy lie.”

“And I'm a filthy man. Hence needing the shower. C'mon, Trap, you'd be doing a public service here.”

But Trapper's obviously not swayed by common human decency and the public good. So Hawkeye tries another tactic.

“You know, if you get me out of here, we can take a shower together.” Hawkeye waggles his eyebrows invitingly.

Trapper smirks. “You make a compelling argument there, Hawk.” And he frees Hawkeye from BJ's clutches easily.

So he must have just been waiting for Hawkeye to make that suggestion, the lech. Not that he's all that put out at having to shower with Trapper. But he'd better wash Hawkeye's hair.

Hawkeye moans and leans back into Trapper's strong, gentle fingers as he massages shampoo into Hawkeye's scalp.

“So, how'd things go with you and BJ having sex?”

And of course Trapper has an ulterior motive. Though in this case, it's gossip rather than sex.

But it is nice he's checking in. Especially after how badly things had gone wrong their first unsupervised tryst. “It was good, Trap. Really, really good.”

Trapper guides Hawkeye under the shower spray to rinse off. “I'm glad, Hawk.”

“I mean, he was kind of anxious at first,” Hawkeye says, once he can talk without getting a mouth full of suds. “Not sure what to do. But he got over that pretty quick. And he took good care of me, Trap. Made me feel really, really good.”

Trapper kisses across Hawkeye's shoulders. “I'm glad he's taking good care of you, Hawk. Glad he's being so good to you.” Cuz after all that pining and heartache and Hawkeye feeling like he couldn't have this, BJ better be treating him right.

“Me too.” Hawkeye pauses, taking a moment to melt into Trapper as he runs soapy hands over his body. “But I'm a little bit glad BJ and Peg are going home tomorrow.”

Because he loves BJ, so much it hurts a little - but he's kind of difficult to deal with sometimes. The two of them could never have this kind of conversation about Trapper, for instance. Not without BJ descending into another fit of jealousy, anyway. And that's a little frustrating to navigate.

“It's just, things have been so off kilter. And I'm kinda ready for things to go back to normal.”

This feels like so, so much – years and years of longing and loving and pining – all resolved at once. Like they're racing to the finish line of the end of BJ's visit. Trying to cram everything into so few days.

And BJ treats all of this so deadly serious.

Not that Hawkeye wants to be flippant or anything. He wasn't lying when he said this was the real deal. Love and not just some fling.

But, “I just want to do something fun and lighthearted and stupid.”

Because this – BJ leaving back for California tomorrow morning – isn't a goodbye, not really. This isn't something to be scared of or agonized over or even really sad about. It's something to be celebrated. Because this is the start of something new and fun and wonderful.

And time and distance will give them a chance to get a feel for what all this is. What it means to both of them. So that things can be even better when they get to see each other again. Something, something, absence makes the heart grow fonder.

“Something fun and lighthearted and stupid, huh?” Trapper asks philosophically. Which is somewhat ruined by him scrubbing at his armpit with the bar of soap. “Well, historically we're pretty good at that. I'm sure we can figure something out.”

* * *

BJ wakes up to Hawkeye's terrible honking laughter. And sees him and Peg sitting on the bed next to him, playing cards with potato chips instead of poker chips. Trapper is sitting in the sex chair, apparently the dealer this round, holding his own hand of cards. And BJ's brain breaks a little bit at the juxtaposition of their laughing, smiling faces and the events of a few hours ago.

He's also really, really glad he bothered to get cleaned up a little and put on shorts before he fell asleep.

“Hello, sleepy head,” Peg greets once she notices that he's awake. “Nice of you to finally join us.”

BJ struggles to detangle himself from the blankets enough to sit up. “Sorry to fall asleep on you, Hawk.” He'd just woken up so early. And it had felt so nice, holding Hawkeye in his arms. Peaceful. Domestic.

Hawkeye waves away his apology.

“But, uh, why are you all playing poker in bed?”

BJ looks around the room. And thank God, all the clothes and towels and sex stuff have been cleared away. The windows are open, letting in fresh air and sunlight and the smell of mown grass. It's all very peaceful and pastoral and nice.

But it still doesn't make any Goddamn sense.

“We,” Hawkeye begins.

Trapper coughs. And it sounds a lot like, “C'mon Hawk, cut the bullshit.” And ok, he can do just a little more emotional honesty today. If he absolutely has to.

“ _I_ didn't want you to wake up alone.”

Because this whole thing between them is still new and tender and so easily bruised. And Hawkeye doesn't want there to be any kind of misunderstanding between them.

“I didn't want you to think that I'd run out on you. Or was having second thoughts or something. I wanted to be there when you woke up.”

“Well, I appreciate that.” And BJ does. He really, really does. “But I think I'm going to go get dressed.” Because it is unbelievably awkward to be sitting there, in his underwear, with his wife and his lover and his lover's lover. After he had sex with the last two.

But Hawkeye's always been weirdly shameless about sex and nudity. He probably doesn't see anything weird about it. BJ, on the other hand, would feel much more comfortable fully clothed.

Peg kisses him on the cheek as he gets out of bed. And Hawkeye leans in to do the same. And BJ promises himself that he'll hurry back to them.

So his shirt might not be buttoned right, and he didn't bother with socks, but the light in their eyes when he returns is worth all that. And there's a roast beef sandwich sitting invitingly on the night stand – replacing the lube and condoms and sex paraphernalia, all tucked away in the drawer. And BJ wonders if this isn't what his life would be like if Hawkeye had followed him home instead of Trapper.

Weird sex and roast beef sandwiches.

It's a bittersweet thought, the idea of having this all the time. But – BJ pauses to steal a chip out of the pot and get harangued for it by Hawkeye – he gets to have this. Here and now and however many times in the future. And that's pretty damn good.


	15. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to my partner, who has never seen MASH or read this fic, but who keeps asking me when there is going to be a sic Father Mulcaky chapter. Isa, you will never read this, but this one's for you, baby.

Charles breathes a sigh of relief as he addresses the final thank you note for the final gaudy, hideously expensive, and utterly horrible gift. This one a terribly gauche clock from a terribly tasteless second cousin. The gift gets added to the pile of things to be displayed in one of the formal parlors Charles never uses when anyone he actually likes comes to visit – and the note gets added to the stack of meticulously calligraphied envelopes currently overtaking his vast and stately desk. Thank God his Herculean task is nearly finished.

The only gift that remains unopened is a bright and cheerful package from all of the former members of the 4077, collectively. It has been sitting – out of place next to the diminishing pile of sedate ecru and gold and teal wrapped gifts – for the entire week after their wonderful – and all too short – honeymoon it has taken Charles and Marjory to work through the trite well-wishes and emotionless fripperies foisted on them by Boston's upper crust.

Charles has been.. hesitant to open it. Both because he knows the former members of the MASH rather better than he'd like-

No, that's a lie. He spent his years at the front telling himself he wouldn't get attached to any of them. That he was to much better than all of them. That he'd leave Korea and this whole sorry chapter of his life and never think about it again.

But then he'd gone home. And everything had felt hollow. Himself most of all.

And he'd found Hawkeye there, nearly as adrift as himself. And with Hawkeye had come Trapper – the two of them a matched set. And following on Hawkeye's coattails had been Sidney and Letta and Steve and Margaret and countless others. All these people who have managed to become real friends over the years, coming together to witness his marriage. Coming together to give himself and Marjory a gift. A memento of the occasion. A reminder of all they mean to each other.

That is what has him hesitant to open the gift. Because it is sure to be more meaningful, more _real_ than any of the priceless bullshit he's been given by the host of family and so-called _friends_ – barely more than acquaintances, really, and not ones he cares to be even that intimate with - who'd made up the rest of the wedding. And Charles isn't certain he's ready to face that.

But what would be even worse – and what makes up the second half of why he is so hesitant to open the gift, to reveal once and for all the contents of the box that has been haunting his every waking – and sleeping – thought. What would be worse is if he's wrong and it's not something heartfelt and sentimental and  _right_ . If it's just some meaningless tawdry nonsense, barely thought about prior to giving and given even less thought after. If those who'd known him in Korea had not, in fact,  _known_ him.

If he's made their tenuous threads of friendship – reaching out across the city, across the country, like gossamer – if he's made them out to be more important than they are. If he's made _himself_ out to be more important than he is. And Charles has never been one to undersell himself, he knows that. He knows that better than perhaps anyone. So it is a real concern.

But he's put it off as long as he can, the not knowing. There are no more excuses. He opens the box.

* * *

_Dear sis,_

_Congratulations on placing first in the Seven Sisters basketball championship. I know your own three-pointers helped considerably in bringing home the victory for your convent. And showing up those braggarts from Saint Theresa's – perhaps they would be better served by rereading the sections of scripture dealing with humility rather than spending all of their efforts on recruiting promising young novices with several-foot vertical leaps! Regardless, congratulations again. Your victory was well earned._

_However, I am saddened that you could not attend Dr. and Mrs. Winchester's wedding as my plus one. It was certainly the highlight of the Boston social calendar. The gold and jewelry in attendance was all aflutter over the spectacle. Indeed, I don't think I've ever attended a wedding that had more to do with what the happy couple was wearing than with the fact they were, now, a happy couple. But not everyone chooses a vow of poverty – as those in attendance made perfectly clear._

_Still, it was a fine wedding for those of us in the cheap seats – I'm glad I got the chance to celebrate Dr. and Mrs. Winchester's marriage. Though it feels a bit strange to refer to the illustrious Dr. Winchester as one half of a happy couple. He was always such a miserable soul in Korea. I suppose none of us were at our happiest then – shining moments of levity pulled from deepest despair or no – except, perhaps, for Major Burns, who was fortunately not invited to this particular event. I fear he would have managed to mar the happy occasion in some manner. But as he wasn't in attendance, everything went off without a hitch – if you'll pardon the pun. And Charles looked positively overjoyed to be wed when he thought no one was looking. I really think Marjory is good for him. Or perhaps it's simply the lack of rats in civilian life. (I'm rather positive it's Marjory.)_

_At any rate, I received an uncharacteristically effusive thank you note from Dr. Winchester and his lovely new wife, once they'd finished enjoying the sights in the Big Apple – which you must show me around some day, when we are both on the East Coast again. It sounded like a most enjoyable city from your description. And perhaps one of these days, we'll even both manage to be at a MASH event at the same time._

_But I've digressed rather far from my story about Dr. Winchester – so I thank God that you are well instilled with the virtue of patience. You know I'm given to wandering thoughts. At any rate, I'm certain I've written far too many times about the gift I was invited to participate in creating along with the rest of the former 4077 members in attendance. But I was really pleasantly surprised with how well it all came together. Max Klinger – who's antics I'm sure I've described to you on occasions too numerous to mention – did an excellent job of pulling the disparate parts into a cohesive whole._

* * *

Charles opens the box. Tears away the gaudy wrapping paper with trembling fingers. Lifts the lid as slowly as he can stand while an eternally patient and understanding Marjory watches on.

Propriety dictates that he read the numerous cards stacked atop the package first. But, in this particular instance, fuck propriety. He needs to know.

He pulls back the layer of tissue paper, revealing... some white satin? Brocaded with a pattern of what appears to be flowers, and quite a thick piece of cloth. Charles is unsure what to make of it, to be perfectly honest. A smoking jacket, perhaps? Which would be unfortunate as white really isn't his color – and as splendid as Marjory had looked in her wedding dress, it's not hers either. But he forges ahead, removing the rather heavy layers of cloth from the box.

The fabric unfolds. And it's...

Charles is struck speechless.

It's hideous. It's beautiful. It's beyond words.

Once he's wiped a bit at his eyes with the handkerchief Marjory hands him – allergies, surely – Charles goes back to read the cards from everyone who had contributed to this monumental gift.

Certainly, some messages are more personal than others. With Hawkeye and Trapper and Letta and Margaret's cards all carrying inside jokes and reminiscences and gentle ribbing about how stupidly besotted he is with Marjory. And not a little ribald humor – courtesy of Hawkeye – about what, exactly, he and Marjory will do atop, beneath, or beside the quilt.

Meanwhile, Walter and Max and Father Mulcahy have all written general well-wishes. Nothing too personal, but positive sentiments expressed honestly. And he appreciates it all the same. Though BJ's card appears to have been written by his wife, given the lack of atrocious puns.

But they – all of them, all of these wonderful, wonderful people – have contributed to this quilt. Made something, toiled over something. All for him. And that says more than any words ever could about their regard for Charles and their wishes for his and Marjory's future happiness.

He must let them know of his appreciation immediately. Charles sits at his desk, pen in hand once more – for this is no dour task, no thankless chore. He will pen a hundred drafts, a thousand, if that's what it takes for him to show even a modicum of the gratitude he feels having these... these _miscreants_ in his life.

* * *

_My own modest contribution turned out rather well, if you'll excuse the moment of base vanity. And Dr. Winchester appears to have genuinely appreciated the gift. Something I was not sure would be the case. He is rather particular._

_And his tastes run rather more extravagant than a man of the cloth would be allowed to entertain – caviar and cigars were certainly in abundance at the wedding reception. I felt a bit out of place, it must be said. Although, the MASH crowd were just as incorrigible and irreverent as I remembered from Korea._

_It was strange to realize that I've missed that irreverence, given how much I used to try and temper it. But it's true nonetheless. Though I must say, I enjoyed the former Colonel Potter's more sedate company immensely. He's not one to be carried away by flights of fancy. A real salt of the earth sort of fellow. I'm sorry you didn't have a chance to meet him – I think you would have gotten along quite well. Always a calm head on his shoulders and a plan to get everyone through the most difficult of times. Something you yourself are so good at. And the man can certainly turn a phrase. I don't know that I've heard so many euphemisms for farmyard excrement as I did under his command. Still, I do miss him – as I miss everyone from Korea._

_It was so nice to have a chance to see so many of them – and in such better circumstances. Lighthearted and carefree._

_Because, while us old fogeys reminisced about the past, the younger crowd – or those young at heart, at least – certainly carried on fit to beat the band. It was wonderful to see them all so happy. So much of the, well, cavorting, for lack of a better term, at the 4077 was born out of a desire to forget the war, to forget the Hell we'd found ourselves in. It was refreshing to see everyone making memories they will want to treasure, rather than working to forget._

_It should come as no surprise to you that Hawkeye was at the center of much of the carrying-on. He always was the heart and soul of the MASH. I often envied him his ability to lighten spirits. But he had such a difficult time of things at the end. Went home a changed man._

_But to see him now, you'd think it was right back at the beginning of the war, when we first met. He had that lightness and joy about him. I didn't always appreciate his mischief, Lord knows. Particularly at the end. But being a civilian again seems to have settled him somewhat and I hope I have a chance to get to know him as he is now._

_I hope I have a chance to get to know everyone all over again. Because we are all changed, I think, by the war – by seeing the darkest side of humanity and feeling duty bound to care for them, to heal them, any way we can, despite it all. I certainly am changed._

_But despite these changes, we are home and we are (mostly) whole and we are continuing on with our lives. Indeed, Radar is following Dr. Winchester's example and is set to be married in the autumn. And he has asked me to attend! What joyous news, indeed, that our little family - born of hardship and circumstance - is now growing. Branching out by choice to include more and more people._

* * *

Max nearly collapses into Soon Li's arms the minute they're back home at their apartment in Toledo. And, since Max is inexplicably blessed with the most wonderful woman on the planet as her wife, Soon Li just holds her in her strong arms while Max shakes apart and pulls back together. It's been a long day and a long weekend and Max is just done.

Soon Li kisses Max's forehead and hair and any part of her she can reach. And Max holds her tight as she can, til she can stand to straighten up and face something that isn't the join of Soon Li's shoulder.

And bless her, Soon Li just says, “Why don't you go get changed into something more comfortable, jagiya?”

Max laughs, a little shaken up still, but mostly relieved to be here and home and with Soon Li. Kisses her gentle and thankful and loving. And sheds the suit and tie and puts on her nightgown. Because it's late enough and Max is wrung out enough to not want to do anything other than sink into bed.

The nightgown isn't one of her sexy lingerie pieces, just a flowered cotton print with some embroidery around the decolletage. Completely ordinary. Because Max doesn't need to put on a show with Soon Li.

Soon Li knows her so completely, so intimately. She's seen Max at her worst and at her best and at every moment in between. And Max has seen her the same way.

It's comfortable to be held in her arms. To know that she's so completely known and loved and held.

They kiss. And when things shift towards sex, they shift together. Gently. Slowly. Tenderly.

Max is about to reach for a condom when Soon Li says, “What do you think about having another baby?”

The first thing Max thinks is, _Oh fuck._ A knee-jerk reaction left over from being young and unmarried and desperately, desperately poor. The second thing she thinks is, _Yes! Please!_ Because it's what she's dreamed about since the first time she got married - having a big, happy family – and there's no one she'd rather have that with than Soon Li.

But what she says is, “I hope the kid gets your nose.”

Soon Li grins up at her. “And I hope they get your smile.” And she basks in the way Max's eyes crinkle up at the corners when she smiles down at her.

And a few weeks after that, Soon Li comes up to where Max is sitting at the dining room table, trying to puzzle out what exactly Dr. Winchester means by “undying gratitude” and squeezes her shoulder.

Max looks up at her with stars in her eyes. “Yeah?”

“Yes, Max.”

It's still way too early to celebrate. And way, way too early to start thinking up baby names. But Max can't help it. She's always been an optimist at heart.

Along with a hopeless, soppy romantic. But Soon Li sure ain't complaining to Max about the overdramatic, utterly ridiculous kiss she pulls her into.

* * *

“How would you feel about getting a dog?”

Kat looks up from between Margaret's thighs _._ “Really? _That's_ what you're thinking about right now?”

At least Maggie has the grace to look sheepish.

“Guess I gotta do a better job here, huh?”

Kat lowers her head again. But Maggie reaches down and lifts her chin so they're looking each other in the eye.

“You always do a wonderful job. I just.. I've been thinking about it.”

Kat gets off her knees and comes up to sit on the bed next to Margaret. “Getting a dog.”

“Yes.” She pauses. “I know it's silly...”

“It's not silly. You want to talk about it, so let's talk about it.”

Margaret smooths down her skirt from where Kat had rucked it up. “There was this little stray dog that would come around the MASH. And it was a flea-bitten, disease-ridden mongrel. Shouldn't have been allowed anywhere near a hospital – not even one held in a mud drowned tin shack. But it just looked so pathetic. Half starved but still so sweet. And I'd feed it scraps from the mess, just little pieces left over from my dinner.”

“Aw, Maggie, I always knew you were a big softy under everything else.” Kat knocks her shoulder against Margaret's.

Margaret takes a breath. “And then one day it died and I just... I grieved it more than I'd grieved the men who'd died in OR or post-op or in the whole Goddamn stupid war.”

Kat reaches out to still Margaret's wringing hands. “Sometimes... sometimes it's easier to grieve the small things. You know?”

Margaret looks up at Kat, and she's got tears in her eyes, but at least she's stopped trying to tear her own fingers off. “I just. I've gotten so used to turning off - not compassion, but, but my ability to be hurt by death.”

Kat sighs. “It's how we get through the day. How we can keep looking after the terminal patients even when we know it's hopeless. Smiles on our faces and – and a void underneath. Because if we let ourselves truly feel, we'd break down in a useless heap right there in the middle of the ward. And we've _got_ to do our jobs.”

But it's frightening, too, to look down at a dying man and not feel the grief she knows she should.

“You're a good nurse, Maggie.”

“But I don't think I could ever be a good mother.”

“You been talking to your dad again?” Cuz that never ends well. And Kat needs to know exactly how much of his shit she's going to have to talk Maggie out of believing.

“No. _God_ no, he hasn't tried talking to me since I turned down that opportunity to get promoted – and the General who came with it.” Margaret sighs. “Just, at the wedding, everyone was going on about their families and everything. And I guess I felt like... like I was failing, somehow.”

Failing as a woman by not having a husband and a baby and a life built around them instead of her career. Even _Hawkeye_ – commitment phobic and with issues regarding children approximately three miles wide – even that Hawkeye has managed to fall into, if not parenthood at least something paternal with Trapper's daughters. And Margaret will eat her hat if “Uncle Hawkeye” doesn't become a fixture of BJ's kids' lives.

And it makes her wonder what the fuck is wrong with her that she can't manage that. Can't be the warm and loving and caring mother that she's supposed to be. Can't ever picture a life that includes children.

But she wants _something_. Something to love and cherish and dote on – to express affection for in a way she struggles to with other people.

And Kat, who _knows_ her. Who accepts her for everything that she is. Kat smiles softly at her and says, “Well, I guess it's good the house has a yard.”

* * *

_Even without taking my vow of chastity into consideration, I've never been all that inclined towards marriage and children. But I certainly appreciate getting to see everyone's photos of their children and getting to hear all the stories of their families. Trapper and BJ both appear to have a photo album's worth of school pictures on hand at all times. And, Lord knows, BJ could go on about Erin and Ben until the end of days if given the opportunity. So I certainly got all the scuttlebutt on that front._

_It makes me wonder if we shouldn't plan on a more child-appropriate gathering in the future. Not that other wedding guests didn't bring their children, but it really was not an event conducive to anyone under the age of perhaps twelve. Too many stuffy speeches and too little fun – at least at all of the other tables. In fact, Trapper ended up taking on something of a second career as baby sitter just to keep the children who were in attendance from running amok while their parents were absorbed in assuredly much more important matters than looking after their own families._

_But I think if we ever do something like this again – and I think we should, because I don't think I can just forget everyone, now that we've had this visit. I don't think I can just go back to my ordinary every-day life without thinking about all of them, without wanting to see them and be part of their lives and have them be part of mine. But I think if we do this again, it should be everyone who wants to come._

_I know Hawkeye and Margaret and I had the dubious honor of making it through the entire war at the 4077 – myself and Margaret there from the first day the MASH was set up, when it was just two tents and a generator. But there are so many people who made up the 4077 over the years. People who left before the war ended or went on to other hospitals or who didn't make it home. But they still have a place here, they and their families._

_I want them to be able to experience the same sense of familiarity and family that I got to experience this weekend. Because this experience changed us more profoundly than I can express – and that doesn't just end because we're back home. We carry that with us, bad and good, on our souls and in our hearts._

_So I suppose what I'm saying is that I have an event to plan. And I hope that you will be able to attend – in fact, since I'm the one planning it, I'll make sure you can attend. You and I will both be there Mary, no getting out of it!_

_And I've written far, far too much now. Although in my defense, it is a rather long and boring ordeal to sit through the annual Diocese meeting when one cannot hear and no one has elected to provide an interpreter. Hopefully nothing too important is being discussed – but given how these meetings always go, it's doubtful._

_At any rate, things look to be wrapping up. So I'll just say that I miss you and I hope you are well and I pray for you as I know you pray for me._

_With love, your brother,_

_Francis_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi folks. We've made it to the end of this installment and I just wanted to thank you all for reading and kudosing and commenting. It really means a lot to me. I love hearing what you all think and getting to talk about the story.  
> I started this series because I wanted to read some Hawkeye/Trapper and there wasn't much of it out there. But this whole deal has turned into a lot more than I ever expected. And a lot more folks have read it and enjoyed it and resonated with it than I ever expected. So thank you.  
> I don't know when I'll pick this series back up. Or what shape it will take - at this point it looks like it will probably be out of order one-shots. But I've got other ideas cooking in my brainpan and will probably end up taking a bit of a break from this series as I work on other stuff.


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